The Queen's Bargain

by Anne Bishop

  Only the Master entered the shop. The guards must have looked at Daemon’s glazed gold eyes and the cold, sweet smile and prudently decided not to provoke a Warlord Prince who was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.

  Lucivar held the war blade steady against the bitch’s face. He waited a moment to give the Master a chance to realize who he was. What he was. “You know this bitch?”

  “My daughter. Release her,” the Master blustered. “She’s done nothing wrong.”

  “Oh, she’s done plenty that’s wrong any way you choose to look at it,” Lucivar said as if they were discussing the weather. “She may not have held the knife, but I’m betting she’s responsible for the scars on that boy’s face. And she used a spell to try to force him to kill this young woman. She will pay the debt she owes for what she’s done.”

  “This is none of your business!”

  “I made it my business.” Now he used Craft so that his voice thundered out of the shop and filled the street, guaranteeing someone would deliver his message to the District Queen. “If you want a war, I will give you a war. But before you gather men to stand against me on a killing field, you tell them that they’re facing the Demon Prince because your daughter likes to abuse men who can’t fight back. You tell them they’re going to die so that she can continue to play games with any man who isn’t strong enough to kill her or aristo enough to cause a scandal if she tries to trap him. You tell your Queen that she is going to forfeit her life because she looked the other way instead of calling your daughter—and you—to account.

  “I’ll give you a choice. You can guarantee in front of witnesses and on your life and the life of your Queen that you will keep this bitch confined until I return to collect what she owes, or I can send her to Hell right now.”

  Another Warlord stepped into the shop, looking grim. “Prince. I’m the Steward of the Court.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “My Queen sends her regards and her regrets. She was not aware of this misconduct. If a formal complaint had been presented to the court—”

  “We appealed to the Queen,” the older man said. “She did nothing, even after that bitch’s friends maimed my son’s face.”

  The Steward flinched, but he looked the man in the eyes. “The Queen did not see your complaint. Neither did I. If we had . . .” He glanced at the Master of the Guard, who was pale and sweating, then offered Lucivar a small bow. “My Queen offers her assurance that we will take this Lady with us now and confine her at the court until you’re ready to collect the debt she owes.”

  Lucivar lifted the war blade away from the bitch’s face and stepped back. “Take her.”

  The Steward snapped his fingers. Guards poured into the shop—frightened, angry men. They had reason to be frightened and angry. If their Queen had known about the misconduct and had done nothing, her court would fail. She would go down, and most likely they would go down with her.

  Two of the guards who wore Jewels darker than Summer-sky took hold of the witch’s arms and led her away, surrounded by the other men.

  The Steward looked at the other two aristo women in the shop. “The Queen commands your presence tomorrow morning. She has some questions for you. Don’t be late.”

  The two women bolted out of the shop.

  The Master turned to the Steward. “You can’t—”

  “Don’t,” the Steward warned.

  Lucivar had a good idea of what was silently said between the two men. If the Master was lucky, he would lose only his place in the Queen’s court and his social standing in the town. If he’d been warned to curb his daughter’s behavior and had ignored the warning—or had prevented complaints from reaching the Queen—he might be having a chat with the High Lord of Hell very soon.

  He waited for the Master and the Steward to leave the shop before he vanished his war blade and released the shield he had wrapped around Bekka. He took the paper from the counter and vanished that too.

  “Thank you, Prince,” Graham said. He looked at Bekka. “Thank you for everything.”

  “If anyone gives you or your family trouble over this, you come to me,” Lucivar said.

  As soon as he walked out of the shop, the people still standing on the other side of the street scurried into shops to get out of sight.

  “Are you all right?” Daemon asked quietly. He looked relaxed, standing there with his hands in his trouser pockets, but Lucivar knew better.

  “I’m fine. You?” He scanned the street, then used psychic tendrils to get a taste of the emotions of the people around him. More relief than fear.

  “Leave the bitch to me.”

  Lucivar studied his brother. “Do you know everything she’s done, everything she owes?”

  Daemon’s smile was viciously gentle. “No, but she does.”

  Nothing he could imagine doing would be close to whatever savagery Daemon had in mind. “Then deal with her.”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  He would find out soon enough. “I’m going to need your help for one more confrontation.”

  “I thought this was the last name on your list.”

  “It was. I’m going to have to attend one of those fancy dances.”

  “You need my help choosing your wardrobe?”

  “Nah. I know what I’m wearing. I just need your help to stop me from turning a dance into a slaughter.”

  Now Daemon studied him. “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

  “No, but it’s better if you do.”

  “In that case, Prick, let’s get back to your eyrie before Surreal rips into us for missing your curfew.”

  He laughed softly, then fell into step with Daemon as they headed for the town’s landing web.

  * * *

  * * *

  After dinner, all the adults had spent time with the children, playing games. Now the yappy horde was brushed and bathed, and Manny was reading them a story while Marian put the baby to bed.

  Surreal settled in one of the chairs in Lucivar’s study.

  “Brandy?” Daemon asked, holding up the decanter.

  “Please.” The hunt had been invigorating, but spending the past few days listening to girls’ stories about Dillon, who was dreamy or a cad or a little bit of both, had left her feeling uncomfortable, made her think too much of her own mistakes.

  She was ready to go home.

  Daemon poured brandy for all of them, then sat in the other chair near Lucivar’s desk. He smiled at her and said, “How was your day?”

  A polite, husbandly question.

  “It would have been better if I could have slipped a stiletto between someone’s ribs and twisted the blade, but the girl who wanted to ‘squeeze his head until his eyeballs popped out’ was quite entertaining.” Surreal sipped her brandy. “I couldn’t decide if she was talking about Dillon or her father, but I can see why Dillon ran from that one. I also talked to a woman who was about a decade older than our prick-ass. She became quite agitated when I said I didn’t know where he lived. She insisted that he had invited her to stay with him, that they had an ‘understanding.’” She took another sip before looking at Lucivar. “You should have a Black Widow take a look at her in order to assess her mental stability. I think she’s going to cause someone serious trouble.”

  “Done,” Lucivar said. “Anything else?”

  Did she want to tell him? Damn it, she had to tell him. “And I castrated a Warlord at an art exhibition.”

  Lucivar and Daemon lowered their brandy snifters and looked at her. She smiled at them. A big, big smile.

  “It was very neatly done with Craft, although some of the pieces of art on display would have been improved by blood and gore.”

  “Okay,” Lucivar said. “Why?”

  “Let’s just say it was a debt he owed the daughter he already has but won’t acknowl
edge. If the report doesn’t show up at the Keep in a few days, I’ll tell you where to find the Warlord who brought this to my attention.”

  “Did the Warlord understand who you are?” Daemon asked.

  “He did. And I think he had a good understanding of what I would do with the information.”

  Lucivar rubbed his forehead and sighed. “One debt settled. More to go. What do we do about Dillon?”

  Surreal set the brandy snifter on the desk. “He played some games with Jillian to make her feel uneducated and socially inferior, and I want to slap him for that. But he wasn’t like that when this started—and there is still a measure of kindness in him. If Lady Blyte had done nothing more than go back on her promise of a handfast after taking him to her bed, Dillon would have been heart-bruised and his reputation would have had a smudge, but he wouldn’t have been any different from plenty of other young men who went to the marriage bed before the marriage. That bitch turning him into prey for every other aristo bitch who wanted a ride and hounding him from one town to the next . . . He could have made other choices, and he’s responsible for his actions, but, Hell’s fire, I feel a little sorry for the fool, and I don’t want to feel sorry for him.” She grabbed the snifter and gulped the rest of the brandy.

  “More?” Daemon asked.

  “No. Thanks.” The burn was kind of pleasant in a painful sort of way.

  “We have a good idea of what Blyte did to Dillon, but what about what he did to the girls who came after her?” Lucivar said.

  “He didn’t have sex with any girl who was still a virgin and refused to take any girl through her Virgin Night—which the girls thought was very romantic and proved his good intentions,” Surreal replied. “However, their aristo fathers, not wanting their families’ social standing soiled by association, preferred to pay Dillon to sneak out of town. Paying him to leave didn’t stop them from smearing his reputation further by implying—or saying outright—that he dallied with girls of good families and then left instead of going through with the handfast because he had no honor. In truth, he was driven out of some towns before he had a chance to unpack his trunk, so the actual number of girls he entangled was far fewer than you would have thought, based on what was said.”

  “The spell he used on Jillian?” Daemon asked.

  “I’m not sure how long he’d been using that spell, because no one but you realized he’d used one.” Surreal hooked her hair behind her delicately pointed ears. “I had the impression he used it more to convince the girls to lend him money than for anything more intimate. When he met Jillian . . .” She sighed and couldn’t look at either man. “I think he hoped having someone love him would give him a second chance at an honorable life.”

  She felt a flash of pain rising up in the abyss before it was brutally smothered. That flash was enough confirmation that Daemon’s love for, and marriage to, Jaenelle Angelline had given him the same kind of second chance—and that, along with Jaenelle being the love of his life and the Queen he’d dreamed of serving, was the reason she would always be the presence he needed with him more than he needed breath or life.

  She pushed out of her chair. “So that’s it. Jaenelle Saetien and I will be heading out in the morning. I think Manny and Tersa are ready to go home too.”

  “And the Scelties,” Lucivar growled.

  Two of them, anyway. She was not going to be the one who said anything about the Sceltie who was currently staying in Nurian’s eyrie.

  “I’ll be home in a couple of days,” Daemon said quietly.

  “We’ll be there.”

  She walked out of Lucivar’s study and wondered if Daemon really would give her a second chance.

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemon stared at the study door a moment longer before refilling his snifter and topping up Lucivar’s. He resumed his seat.

  Lucivar called in a paper, then used Craft to float it across the desk. “The names of the bastards who maimed that Warlord to curry favor with the bitch.”

  “If you have no objection, I’ll let Chaosti and his men take care of this. They would appreciate the fresh blood, and they’ll take the meat back to Hell for the hounds.”

  “That’s fine with me.” Lucivar rested his head on the back of his leather chair and stared at the ceiling. “Hell’s fire, Bastard. I’m tired.”

  He understood that kind of tired. “It’s not done yet.”

  “I know. The spell to manipulate feelings was bad enough. Using it to compel a person to kill someone out of meanness or jealousy . . .” Lucivar sat up, stretched one side of his neck, then the other. “Whatever you want to do with Dillon, I’ll back you.”

  “All right. I’ve made some inquiries already. Based on what we’ve discovered, I think he needs a fresh start someplace where he won’t run into bad memories.”

  Lucivar nodded. “Coming to Kaeleer gave us that kind of fresh start.”

  “It did. And so much more.”

  Another nod. “And Jillian?”

  “She needs a change of scenery too,” Daemon said gently.

  “She’s so young.”

  “She’s not that young, Prick. She’s outgrown what she can find here in Ebon Rih. At least for right now.”

  He watched Lucivar struggle with the idea of letting a daughter fly beyond his protection. That was an internal battle every father faced.

  “Where?” Lucivar finally said.

  When Daemon told him, Lucivar groaned, “Mother Night”—and then laughed.

  * * *

  * * *

  “My boy.”

  Taking a step away from the eyrie’s front door, Daemon looked toward the shadows in one corner of the room.

  He and Lucivar hadn’t expected Tersa to accompany Manny when the older woman returned to help Marian look after the children and the eyrie, but neither of them had suggested that the broken Black Widow go home. Manny provided practical help, but the White-Jeweled witch had no fighting skills in the event that Lucivar’s family was attacked during this investigation. Tersa, on the other hand, could be fiercely—and weirdly—lethal.

  “Darling, it’s late. Why are you still awake?”

  He watched her as she approached him—his mother, with her broken mind and extraordinary knowledge.

  Tersa rested one hand against the side of his face. “Not well yet, but healing.”

  “Yes. I’m healing.”

  Her hand drifted from his face, down his shoulder, stopping at the wounds on his right arm that he’d hidden from everyone. “They will scar.”

  “Yes. Remembrance and reminder. I will carry them with me, just as I’ve carried this one.” He pushed up his left cuff to show her the scar she’d given him all those years ago.

  Tersa smiled. “She promised that if you asked for help, she would answer.”

  It didn’t surprise him that Tersa had been the one to ask Witch for a promise—and receive one. What surprised him was that he’d never thought to ask his mother what she knew about the song in the Darkness. Maybe she’d known all along that some part of Witch was still at the Keep. Maybe that was a gem of knowledge mislaid in the Twisted Kingdom and recently found again because it was truly needed. He doubted she could tell him, and it no longer mattered.

  He took her in his arms, rested his face against her head as she rested against his chest.

  “I’m not whole, Mother,” he said quietly. “I might never be whole. But I will do my best to heal and stay with all of you for as long as I can.”

  “I know.” She eased away from him. “Don’t turn away from help offered with love.”

  “I won’t.”

  “Don’t turn away.”

  That sounded more like a warning that he might not recognize what was offered.

  “I won’t,” he said again.

  “The Tagg pup will live with the Mikal
boy and me.”

  “Tagg is too young and—”

  “He needs the Mikal boy.”

  He could hear his father telling him not to argue with his mother. Not that he’d win this argument. Clearly Tersa had already decided about boy and puppy. He’d have to see if boy and puppy agreed with her. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

  Tersa smiled and walked away.

  Daemon returned to the Keep and gave Chaosti the list of men who wouldn’t see another sunrise—and wouldn’t make the transition to demon-dead. After the Dea al Mon Warlord Prince and his men headed for that Rihland town, Daemon retreated to the Consort’s suite.

  He called in a wooden frame and his supply of spider silk and wove a tangled web for the aristo bitch who had tried to turn love into a weapon.

  “Does she deserve that?” Witch asked when he sat back to consider his work.

  “She does,” he replied. “For everyone else, it is warning and lesson that, from now on, there will be a steep price for using the ‘if you loved me’ spell.”

  He felt her hand on his shoulder, watched her face as she leaned forward to study the tangled web. Then Witch smiled at him and said, “You need to make the teeth sharper.”

  * * *

  * * *

  If you loved me . . .

  If you loved me . . .

  If you loved me . . .

  At first, she couldn’t remember where she was. Not her own bedroom.

  Now she remembered. She hoped Graham ended up in the bowels of Hell! If he’d done what she’d told him to do instead of fighting her control, that manthief Bekka would be dead, ripped up by Graham’s own hand, and he would be so sorry that he hadn’t been nicer to her, hadn’t done what she’d wanted.

  Something coiled around her legs, around her arms, around her waist.

  If you loved me, you would tell the truth.

  Before she could scream, the darkness in the room softened until she could clearly see the plant coiled around her limbs and torso.

  If you loved me, you would tell them about the games you’ve played. All the nasty games.