The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  Her lips twitched. “Worried about getting your ass kicked?”

  He was more worried about her preventing him from visiting her anymore if he got careless with his body. “Maybe.”

  “Go inside next time. Or stay in your own room, where you’ll be safe—and warm.”

  “Yes, Auntie,” he said meekly.

  Her silvery, velvet-coated laugh rang through the Misty Place. “Meek does not suit you, boyo.”

  He grinned.

  When she stood, so did he, knowing this visit had come to an end. He always wished to stay longer, but he understood that the Misty Place stood so deep in the abyss it wasn’t a safe place for him. For anyone. Except Witch.

  “If I find the stone and it’s clear, can I tell Papa? He’d want to know that Mother will get better.”

  Witch looked away and he wondered what she could see. Or what she had already seen.

  “If you find the stone and it’s clear, let someone else explain it to him.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, there are one or two people around who could explain it to him without getting into trouble—or having him ask awkward questions when it isn’t time for him to hear the answers.” She smiled. “Time for you to go, boyo.”

  He bowed, a Warlord Prince acknowledging his Queen. “Lady.”

  “Try to stay out of trouble.”

  “But I only get to visit when I’m in trouble.”

  She faded away, but her laughter lingered, surrounding him as the Misty Place also faded away.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemon stopped at the Keep to inform Draca and Geoffrey that Daemonar was missing and asked that they let him know if the boy turned up looking for shelter or a hot meal. If the boy was still missing by sunset, Draca would inform any of the demon-dead currently in residence and they, too, would join the search.

  He didn’t think it would be necessary. He knew where he would have gone for the illusion of comfort—where he still went several times a year.

  He dropped from the Winds and landed in front of the cabin Saetan had built for Jaenelle Angelline when she was an adolescent—a solitary place on the outskirts of Riada where she could be Jaenelle instead of Witch or the Queen of Ebon Askavi. During the years when he and Jaenelle had been married, whenever they needed a couple of quiet days to be nothing more than a man and woman in love, they came here. Since her death, on the nights when he stayed here, he still dreamed that he slept with her, still smelled her unique scent on the sheets when he woke, even though he knew that wasn’t possible. It didn’t matter if it was self-delusion; the nights when he dreamed of nothing more than Jaenelle being there with her body lightly pressed against his back quieted something inside him that nothing else could—not even being with Surreal, despite his love and respect for the woman who was now his wife. In those dreams he felt that he could stretch a part of himself that was usually coiled and tightly leashed, could purr and show the claws he usually hid from the rest of the Blood.

  In those dreams he could be everything he was in all of his terrible glory.

  Sometimes he caught Lucivar looking at him, studying him, and knew his brother feared the day when the dreams stopped and nothing would quiet all that he was.

  Pushing those thoughts aside, Daemon tried the front door and frowned. Still locked. He scanned the porch, letting a touch of his Birthright Red power drift over the floor and furniture in case the boy thought a Green sight shield would keep him hidden.

  Nothing on the porch, but he did sense the Green nearby.

  Since he wasn’t about to wade through knee-deep snow to go around the cabin, Daemon used Craft to air walk above the snow, a neat trick Jaenelle Angelline had taught him long ago.

  He found the boy curled up against the back door, unmoving. Taking the step that brought his foot just above the narrow back porch, he reached out, relieved to feel the Green shield—and frustrated, because he didn’t want to destroy the shield unless the boy was hurt.

  “Daemonar.”

  Daemonar raised his head and looked at him with eyes that held a familiar mix of emotions—grief, guilt, and, most of all, relief. And that made him wonder if, in this place, he was the only one who dreamed.

  “Am I in trouble?” Daemonar asked.

  “Let’s just say your disappearance has exercised your father’s temper.”

  “Everything has a price,” the boy muttered as he stood up, his movements stiff from the cold.

  Relieved that the boy hadn’t done himself any harm, Daemon allowed annoyance to fill his voice. “Hell’s fire, why didn’t you go inside instead of staying out here to freeze?”

  “No one is allowed to use the cabin.”

  The boy had a point. Daemon welcomed no one to this cabin, not even Lucivar, and barely managed gratitude and grace when Marian cleaned the cabin or left food for him. Of course, she didn’t give him any choice. Cleaning the cabin had been one of the services she had performed for the Queen of Ebon Askavi. As long as the cabin stood, Marian would continue performing that service.

  Daemon pointed to what looked like a slice of a tree trunk nailed to the side of the cabin. He pressed his fingers to the center. Using basic Craft, he lifted the inside half of the trunk, the separation skillfully made along one of the tree’s rings so that it went unnoticed. He took out the key hidden in the back of the removed section and held it up.

  “Key to the back door. Next time, use it.” Daemon looked at his nephew and let some of his power whisper between them. “But only you. Understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Satisfied that the boy really did understand, Daemon replaced the key and fit the center piece of the trunk back into place. “You used a warming spell?” He hadn’t sensed any Craft except the shield, but the warming spell could have been used up.

  “Yes, sir. Two of them.”

  Since the boy was all right, it was time to contact Lucivar. ٭Prick? I found him. He’s fine.٭

  ٭He won’t be when I kill him flatter than dead.٭

  Flatter than dead had become a family catchphrase that indicated annoyed relief rather than true anger at a child’s misbehavior.

  ٭We’re going to stop for a hot drink and something to eat before returning to the eyrie,٭ Daemon said.

  ٭Going to fortify him for the scolding when he gets home?٭ Lucivar asked dryly.

  ٭As an indulgent uncle, what else would I do?٭ Why did he get the impression that Lucivar was relieved to have him away from the eyrie a while longer?

  No questions about where the boy had been found. There was no need. Lucivar would know everything when they talked later that day.

  “Come on, boyo,” Daemon said. “We’ll stop at The Tavern for some soup.”

  “And hot chocolate?”

  He should withhold the treat as a penalty for upsetting the adults, but today an occasionally indulgent uncle would learn more than a strict one. “And hot chocolate.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Surreal hung her clothes in the wardrobe and tucked her underwear in one of the dresser drawers before turning to Tersa. “Would you like me to help you unpack?”

  Tersa dropped her travel bag next to the dresser. “The boy is sleeping in another room?”

  “Yes. You and I are sharing this room.” And a bed, since none of the guest rooms at the eyrie had two beds. She could squeeze a daybed into the room, but those were being used by Manny, who was staying in the baby’s room, and Jillian, who was staying with Titian. Lucivar had said nothing when she told him she would stay with Tersa. Maybe he had his own concerns about a broken Black Widow staying in an unfamiliar place without someone close by who would know if she woke up and wandered out of the eyrie. They were on a mountain, after all.

  Lucivar hadn’t asked why she didn’t intend to sleep with her husband, an indifferenc
e she put down to his being preoccupied with Marian’s illness and Daemonar’s disappearance. She wasn’t sure what Daemon was going to say about the sleeping arrangements.

  She found out an hour later when Daemon and Daemonar returned.

  “Is Daemonar all right?” she asked, staying just a step away from the door of the primary guest room while Daemon hung up the clothes Jazen had packed for him.

  “He just needed some private time to think,” Daemon replied.

  He didn’t look at her, but she could feel that sexual heat drifting toward her—a lure to compel her to give in to something she wanted to resist while they were at the eyrie. They weren’t here for him to play his games. They were here to help his brother.

  “You’re sleeping elsewhere?” he asked mildly.

  “Tersa came with us. Someone needs to keep an eye on her, and Manny is looking after the baby.”

  “You should do what you think best.”

  Something under those bland words. Something that might be dangerous.

  “I do think it’s best while we’re here,” she said, her voice sharp before she regained enough control to remember that courtesy was the way most of the Blood survived interacting with the most dangerous among them. “I’ll let you finish unpacking while I figure out what to do with all the food that’s arriving.”

  He turned and looked at her. She couldn’t interpret what she saw in his gold eyes, but the door closing as soon as she stepped into the corridor—and the click of the lock—expressed his feelings quite well.

  * * *

  * * *

  Dressed in the flannel sleep pants he occasionally wore on cold winter nights, Daemon put a warming spell on the sheets before settling into bed. Just as well that Surreal had chosen to sleep elsewhere. If she’d stayed with him, she’d want sex, and he wasn’t in the mood to oblige her.

  His smile was sharp and a little bitter when someone knocked on the Black-locked door. Then Lucivar said, ٭Bastard?٭

  After creating a dim ball of witchlight that floated near the ceiling, he released the Black lock and sat up as Lucivar walked into the room and closed the door.

  “Problem?” he asked.

  Lucivar stared at a spot on the wall just past Daemon’s shoulder. “I can’t sleep in that bed. Not tonight.”

  His arrogant Eyrien brother seldom hesitated, but they both knew who had to extend the invitation.

  Daemon lay back and raised his right arm. Lucivar came around to that side of the bed and tucked in beside him, laying his head on Daemon’s shoulder. How many times had they slept this way over the years when one of them was wounded in body or heart? Protection and comfort. A silent promise that the one who was hurting more could rest because the other would keep watch.

  Tonight that was Lucivar.

  Daemon said nothing. Whatever was happening to Marian they would face together. As his fingers drifted through Lucivar’s hair, he added a soothing spell that would ease his brother into needed sleep.

  Once Lucivar fell asleep, Daemon allowed himself to drift toward his own rest. Then the door opened and Daemonar hurried in. The boy didn’t even blink when he saw his father and uncle together. If anything, he looked relieved—and piled onto the bed, fitting himself against Daemon’s other side.

  “All the girls have someone to sleep with,” Daemonar whispered. Then he yawned, made a snuffling sound, and went alarmingly limp.

  Before Daemon could decide if the boy was ill or really fell asleep that fast, Lucivar reached across and wrapped a hand around the boy’s arm, a move so ingrained that neither Eyrien woke—and Daemon relaxed.

  When Lucivar took Daemonar hunting on the mountain, he probably allowed the boy a lot of freedom to learn—and to make small mistakes. But at night, when they both needed sleep and the boy might make a potentially fatal move? Daemon imagined Lucivar kept a hand on his son as protection and would wake immediately if he sensed anything wrong.

  Someday, when baby Andulvar was old enough to join them, he would sleep between father and elder brother, protected by both.

  And hopefully, when that day came, they would return to the eyrie after a hunt to find Marian working in her garden or reading a book, whole and healthy and able to welcome them home.

  * * *

  * * *

  Marian stood under the cascade of warm, soft black water. The song, that familiar voice, seemed to fall with the water, seeping into her skin, down into her muscles, through her bones right into the marrow.

  She wasn’t sure how long she stood under the water before she felt something trickle between her legs. Alarmed, she started to reach for herself when she noticed a fine black silt dripping from the ends of her fingers.

  Stay, the voice sang. Stay until the water runs clear. Stay until what doesn’t belong is washed away.

  She felt a tickle, a trickle along her scalp, and tipped her head back to let the black water wash more silt away. And as she listened to the song, she stayed beneath the black water that washed away what didn’t belong.

  FOURTEEN

  Propped on one elbow, Dillon watched the woman sleep.

  He hadn’t been looking for anyone during the days of Winsol, and it had taken him a couple of days to realize the witch who was a decade older than he had focused on him for more than brief conversation. He hadn’t thought much of her interest in him until she began sharing her sad tale about the lover who had jilted her. They had been handfasted and were going to marry, were going to have children and be together forever. But he’d abandoned her, had packed up his things and had left one minute after the handfast expired.

  After being with her a couple of days, Dillon didn’t blame her former lover for running. He’d accepted her invitation for “company”—which, it turned out, had meant sex—because he was lonely and still hurting from his own family’s rejection during the days of the Blood’s most important celebration. In the days since then, he’d likened her to one of those plants that ensnared its prey and then sucked the life out of it.

  She constantly compared him with her previous lover. Favorably, yes, but he felt like she was ticking off boxes on a list. Or, worse, was simply desperate to acquire another lover to prove the other man was wrong about her and whatever had been said wasn’t true. What had, at first, seemed like a need for reassurance now felt smothering.

  She’d asked too many questions about the cottage and village where he claimed to live, had pouted when he hadn’t leaped at her suggestion of coming for a long visit, and had started making “teasing” remarks about him having another woman as the reason for his lack of enthusiasm. She’d mentioned too many times how she longed to have children, making him glad that he kept the contraceptive brew he used hidden and shielded. He wondered if she’d tampered with the brew her former lover used, intending to get pregnant and hold a child for ransom to ensure the man would dance to her tune until the Birthright Ceremony, when he would either gain legal rights to his child or be denied forever.

  He’d told himself he wanted a handfast, wanted a way to begin restoring his reputation and honor. But not with her. All he could see with her was a year, or a lifetime, of misery.

  He did want a handfast, but he didn’t want to be the one feeling the knife’s edge. Not again. He needed someone he could control.

  His thankfully temporary lover opened her eyes, smiled, and reached for him.

  Her fingers were skilled. But the desperation and calculation in her eyes confirmed that he needed to convince her to let him leave. Time to find out how well that spell worked and whether it was worth what he’d paid to learn it.

  If you loved me . . . If you loved me . . . If you loved . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Surreal dreamed of hands that caressed her until she felt helpless with pleasure, dreamed of long black-tinted nails that were sharp as a razor slicing her thighs. She dreamed o
f her husband pleasuring her as he watched her bleed out—and woke in a panic, on the verge of a savage orgasm.

  Using her own hand would take away the worst of the need, but it wouldn’t satisfy. She’d learned that the hard way. Everything else was a pale substitute for Sadi’s touch.

  Tersa wasn’t in bed, wasn’t in the room. Surreal had no idea how long the Black Widow had been gone, but she’d find Tersa later. Right now her husband needed to fulfill one of his duties. The bastard.

  Daylight but still early. She hurried through the eyrie’s corridors to the primary guest room, grateful she hadn’t run into anyone—and wondered why Lucivar, at least, wasn’t up and about yet.

  She didn’t knock on the door. She just walked in and took a step toward the bed before she stumbled and stared.

  Daemon in the middle of the bed, his chest bare, his face turned away from the door, his cheek resting against Lucivar’s head. And Lucivar, asleep, his head on Daemon’s shoulder, one arm draped across Daemon’s belly.

  Sadi and Yaslana didn’t talk about their past—especially not their past with each other. She’d been a whore for decades before coming to Kaeleer, had accommodated the kind of sex play that required discretion. As she stared at them, she didn’t wonder what they had been to each other in the past; she wondered if they still . . . indulged . . . on occasion.

  Then, finally, she noticed Daemonar tucked in with them.

  No matter what Daemon might do with his brother, she couldn’t see either man playing any kind of sex game when the boy was in the room.

  Realizing they’d slept together for comfort and not sex, when she desperately needed sex, made her furious with both men.

  She didn’t know how long she’d stood there, staring at them, when Tersa said behind her, “Puppies in a basket.” Then Manny let out a huffing laugh and said, “Huh. Some things don’t change.” As if seeing Lucivar and Daemon together was nothing special—was, in fact, ordinary.