Shalador's Lady bj-8

by Anne Bishop

  He had always been considered handsome. Daemon, on the other hand, was beautiful and moved with a feline grace that drew the eye and aroused the senses.

  The foolish lusted after that body, forgetting that the man inside the skin was a powerful predator with a cold, killing temper.

  Which made him wonder about the reason for this visit.

  “You’re here early,” Saetan said.

  “Went to sleep early, got up early,” Daemon replied.

  Back and forth. Ceaseless movement. If it was Lucivar, he wouldn’t think twice about the prowl. But Daemon?

  Daemon stopped moving and stared at the wall. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

  Fear clamped around Saetan’s heart, but he asked calmly, “In what way?”

  A few weeks ago, Theran Grayhaven came to Kaeleer and asked Daemon for help. Disturbed by the physical resemblance between Theran and his old friend Jared, Daemon had slipped into painful memories, confusing the past with the present. No one had known there were deep emotional scars connected to the years after Daemon helped Jared and Lia elude Dorothea’s guards. No one had suspected there was anything wrong—until Daemon attacked Jaenelle.

  Since that night, Daemon was quick to hone his temper when anyone questioned his mental or emotional stability, so the subject had to be approached with caution.

  He understood that. When the witch Vulchera had tried to compromise Daemon’s honor by playing her particular brand of blackmail games, something had snapped inside of him, and he’d slid into the Twisted Kingdom where his rage had found an insane and terrible clarity. It wasn’t the snap and slide that had disturbed the family; it was the deliberate way he had executed the bitch that had scared them.

  So the whole family was still feeling a bit raw—and Lucivar going into rut so soon after didn’t help.

  “In what way?” he asked again.

  Daemon turned to face him. “I’m only seventeen hundred years old. I’ve been married for a year to the woman I love with everything in me—a woman I’ve waited centuries to be with. So when that woman indicates she wants to make love with me, I should not be falling asleep between the thought and the deed!”

  Relief made Saetan’s knees weak—and he needed every drop of his fifty thousand years of self-discipline and control to keep a straight face.

  “Lucivar is in rut,” he said.

  “I know that,” Daemon replied, sounding as if he’d like to whack his brother’s head against a wall a few times because of it.

  “Who is looking after Daemonar?”

  Daemon frowned. “He’s staying at the Hall with us. I thought you knew that.”

  “I’m aware of where he’s staying. Who is looking after him?”

  Daemon shifted his weight from one foot to the other. In and of itself, it was an insignificant movement—except that Daemon had done it, and Daemon rarely showed any sign of uncertainty.

  “I am, for the most part. Well, Hell’s fire, Jaenelle can’t hold the leash on that little beast.”

  Of course she could, Saetan thought. Even now, when she no longer had the abundance of physical energy she used to have, Jaenelle was probably one of the few people who could keep up with a small Eyrien boy. Not to mention that Daemonar loved his Auntie J, sensed on some level that she couldn’t take rough play, and now had his young Warlord Prince instincts tugging at him to protect the Queen.

  “Holt is also taking shifts watching the boy,” Daemon added.

  “Holt?” Saetan wondered if the footman was writing out his resignation. Which would be a shame, because the man was an asset to the household.

  “He’s young, strong, and has the experience of having several nieces and nephews,” Daemon replied. “He also gets double wages for any day he assists in looking after the boy—and an extra day off with pay.”

  “Generous,” Saetan murmured. “If those are the terms you offered, you should have plenty of volunteers.”

  “Not after the first hour,” Daemon growled.

  Don’t laugh, he told himself. You know exactly what this is like, so do not laugh at him.

  But he wanted to laugh. So he gave himself a stern mental shake and cleared his throat.

  The rut wasn’t a laughing matter. Once or twice a year, the fierce sex drive that always simmered in a Warlord Prince intensified to a need that eclipsed sanity, and a man who could normally control his predatory nature became a danger to everyone except the woman he’d fixed his attention on—and sometimes, if she wasn’t careful around him, even she wasn’t safe from a temper that had no leash.

  It changed when a Warlord Prince had a strong relationship with a woman, particularly when that woman was his lover. She, at least, could usually penetrate the sexual madness and provide a little control during those three days. And a Warlord Prince who was a father could usually tolerate his own children’s presence when they were infants or toddlers, as long as he didn’t have to interact with them.

  But Daemonar had begun the transition from toddler to boy last autumn and now had the unmistakable psychic scent of a Warlord Prince. Now Lucivar saw a rival instead of a son. So the boy could no longer stay in the eyrie when his father was in rut. Which meant Daemon took Daemonar for those days in the same way Saetan had taken Andulvar’s son, Ravenar, and Andulvar had taken Mephis and Peyton.

  “You’re taking care of a small boy who is in motion almost every moment he’s awake, and you think there is something wrong with you because you fell asleep before making love to Jaenelle?”

  “Well . . .”

  “When he goes down for an afternoon nap, do you have sense enough to take an hour of that time to get some sleep yourself?”

  Daemon’s gold eyes flashed with annoyance. “I do have work to do.”

  “Meaning you haven’t taken that hour.”

  His son snarled softly. “Lucivar doesn’t take naps.”

  Hell’s fire. This wasn’t a competition. Or maybe it was. Except for these past few years when they had been reunited with him, the only measuring stick they had for what was “normal” for a male with so much power was each other.

  “Lucivar is Eyrien,” Saetan said, his patience starting to fray.

  “Half Eyrien.”

  “Nevertheless, the Eyriens are a very physical people, and your brother is no exception. Besides, Lucivar catches quick naps throughout the day. Haven’t you seen him stand perfectly still with his eyes focused on some distant spot while you’re talking to him and then realize he hasn’t heard anything you’ve said?”

  Daemon shrugged, a movement full of dismissal and irritation.

  “He was asleep,” Saetan said.

  Daemon jerked. “What? He was what?”

  “Asleep. I’m not sure if it’s something Eyrien males are born knowing how to do or if they’re trained, but they can sleep on their feet with their eyes open. Just a few minutes at a time. For a warrior, being able to snatch those moments of rest can mean the difference between surviving a battle or being one of the dead.” Saetan paused, then added, “Andulvar used to do that sometimes when I was talking to him. He even had the balls to tell me my voice was a soothing drone.”

  Daemon snorted in an effort to hold back a laugh.

  “If it’s any comfort to you, I know for a fact there are nights when Lucivar flops on the bed and is so deeply asleep by the time Marian comes in that she can’t shift him, so she throws a blanket over him and sleeps somewhere else. A few hours later, he wakes up, realizes she isn’t there, and goes and fetches her to tuck them both in for the rest of the night.”

  “But he didn’t think something was wrong with him,” Daemon muttered.

  Saetan raised an eyebrow. “Then why do you think I know about it?”

  Daemon blinked. Blinked again. “Oh.”

  He huffed out a sigh. “Is that it? Anything else? I noticed you’re a bit stiff this morning.” When Daemon mumbled a response, he put some paternal steel in his voice. “What?”

  “I
fell out of a tree.”

  “I see.” He didn’t—and he wasn’t going to ask about it. But even knowing the response he was about to provoke, he decided to trespass. “How are you otherwise?”

  A heartbeat was all it took for Daemon to switch from being a son to being a Warlord Prince whose cold temper could be as elegant as it was deadly.

  “I’m fine,” Daemon replied, a warning chill in his voice.

  “And I’m your father,” Saetan replied, “as well as the High Lord of Hell. I’ll have an honest answer this time, Prince.”

  They stared at each other, assessing, measuring. Then Daemon leashed the Warlord Prince in order to be a son again.

  “I don’t like knowing there are places where I’m fragile,” Daemon said. “I don’t like admitting I can be vulnerable.”

  “No man does. But very few men, if any, could have survived having their mind shattered twice and come back from it. Everything has a price, Daemon. Knowing there are some things you can’t do seems like a small price to pay for getting your life back.” Saetan studied his son. “There’s something else. What is it?”

  “I’ll be going into rut sometime in the next few weeks,” Daemon said.

  “And that worries you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it worry Jaenelle?”

  “No.” Daemon shifted his shoulders. “Could you talk to her? Make sure she’s willing after . . .”

  . . . after the attack.

  Daemon took a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “I need to get back. Jaenelle was sure she and Holt could deal with the boy for a few hours, but I don’t want to be away too long.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” Saetan said. “Soon.”

  Daemon nodded. “If Lucivar gets Marian pregnant again . . .”

  They both sighed.

  “If that happens, we’ll all deal with it,” he said. And hope for a girl.

  “I don’t think Eyriens created the hunting camps just to train boys to become warriors,” Daemon said thoughtfully. “I think they created them to send young males away from home because that was the only way Eyrien males would have siblings other than older sisters.”

  Saetan’s lips twitched. “You could be right. Yes, I think you could be right.”

  “Hello, witch-child.” Saetan pushed the books aside and turned to lean on the blackwood table. He’d been expecting her. That was why he hadn’t retired to his suite to rest during the harsher midday hours that were so draining for a Guardian.

  “Hello, Papa,” Jaenelle replied.

  She didn’t come to him for a hug. She didn’t look away. In fact, the fingers twining around and around one another was the only sign of nerves.

  The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The daughter of his soul. They had almost lost her when she purged the Realms of the Blood who were tainted by Dorothea and Hekatah. Now she was whole and healthy again, if still a bit too thin in his opinion. The golden hair, cut short while she was healing, looked shaggy now. He couldn’t tell if that was a deliberate style or the result of letting it grow.

  But it was the sapphire eyes that held him now as they had held him the first time he met her.

  “What is said between father and son is private, and I appreciate that,” Jaenelle said. “But I need to know if Daemon is all right.”

  “Are you asking about his back?”

  “I know about his back, Saetan.”

  And there it was—that hint of caverns and midnight in her voice that told him he was no longer talking to his daughter; he was talking to his Queen. To Witch.

  “Daemon Sadi is the most powerful male in Kaeleer,” Witch said. “He’s a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince with a temper that cannot be dismissed or taken lightly. He’s your equal.”

  “Actually, he’s dominant,” Saetan said quietly. “His power is a little darker than mine. Which makes him the most powerful male in the history of the Blood. I’m aware of that, Lady. What is your point?”

  “He slunk out of the bedroom this morning. He slunk out, Saetan. I need to know why.”

  “He was embarrassed because he had fallen asleep before making love to you last night. He thought there must be something wrong with him.”

  Jaenelle’s mouth fell open. She stared at him. Finally she said, “Well . . . Hell’s fire. He’s been chasing after Daemonar for two days. Why was he surprised that he fell asleep?”

  “Because, like his brother, he hasn’t taken into account that having the stamina to run other grown men into the ground is not the same thing as trying to keep up with a small, bright boy who leaps into exploring the world with all the arrogance of his race—to say nothing of having inherited Lucivar’s confidence in being able to meet any challenge the world foolishly chooses to toss at him.”

  “Oh.”

  “Were you disappointed that you didn’t make love last night?”

  She gave him a dry smile. “Frankly, I’m not sure either one of us could have stayed awake through the whole thing if we’d tried.”

  End of discussion, Saetan thought. Except it wasn’t. Not quite. “He’s also concerned about how you’ll respond to him the next time he goes into rut—which will be fairly soon.”

  The look in her sapphire eyes sizzled along his nerves. He was her adopted father, and he had never thought of her physically in any other way. But he was also a man and a Warlord Prince, and there was always a sexual awareness between a Warlord Prince and his Queen, even when there was no desire to do anything with that awareness.

  When Daemon was caught in the rut’s sexual madness, how much of his relief came from physical sex and how much came from the knife-edged dance of being with Witch in the Misty Place deep in the abyss—of being with the living myth when she revealed the Self that lived within the human body? The Self that was not completely human.

  The sizzle faded. He had to clear his throat before he could speak. “I’ll tell Daemon not to worry about the rut.”

  *I’ve never worried about the rut,* she told him using a psychic thread.

  Now he understood why she didn’t.

  Jaenelle closed the distance between them and hugged him. Then she gave him a bright smile. “I’d better get back to the Hall before Daemonar gets his Unka Daemon into trouble.”

  “I thought Daemonar had given up the baby talk.”

  “Oh, he has for the most part. But he likes the sound of ‘unka,’ and his uncle doesn’t insist that he say the word correctly.”

  Saetan smiled. “I see. Off you go, witch-child. Try to keep them both out of the trees, will you?”

  “I’ll do my best.”

  Later, when he was alone in his suite, preparing to sleep through the midday hours, he allowed himself to remember her in that moment when she showed him a side of Witch a father would never see.

  And he allowed himself one moment to envy his son—and to wish he could have been the lover instead of the father.

  CHAPTER 3

  TERREILLE

  Propped up on one elbow, Ranon watched Shira’s slow return to awareness after the climax that was the finale of a long, slow, intense evening of lovemaking.

  Before coming together in Cassidy’s court, they’d had five years of fast, furtive coupling because his interest would have drawn the wrong kind of attention to the Black Widow Healer. Five years when he’d tried to stay away from her and had been unable to resist being with her. Five years of love always being entwined with fear.

  Twice that five years, actually, if he counted the years before they became lovers. He had been twenty and still adjusting to the Opal power that coursed through him after he’d made the Offering to the Darkness. She had been sixteen—a young Black Widow, born to the Hourglass Covens, who was just beginning the secret training that would hone the Craft she instinctively knew, as well as the open training required to be a Healer.

  They had both been visiting friends in a village that wasn’t home to either of them. They had met by chance when their companions had chosen the same d
ining house for the midday meal. And that meeting had shaped their hopes and dreams for the next ten years.

  Now, thanks to Cassidy, he and Shira could spend time together openly, could spend the night together, could begin to build a life together. That alone would have earned Cassidy his loyalty. The fact that she was proving to be a far stronger ruler than any of them had expected from a Queen who wore a Rose Jewel had earned his respect and a different kind of love. Her will was his life, and he would do everything he could to help her rule Dena Nehele—and by doing so he would do more than he’d dreamed possible for the Shalador people.

  “What are you looking at?” Shira asked, her dark eyes reflecting the pleasure of their lovemaking as well as amusement.

  His thoughts had drifted beyond her bedroom, but his eyes had been focused on her breasts.

  He lowered his head and placed one warm kiss between her breasts before saying, “A Shalador beauty.”

  Her response was a little snort. “I know what I look like.”

  “But you don’t see what I see,” Ranon said. He was considered a handsome man. The sharp features typical of his people gave his face a rugged handsomeness that went well with a warrior’s lean body, and he had the dark eyes, dark hair, and golden skin that made Shaladorans distinct from the brown-skinned, long-lived races or the fair-skinned races like the people of Dena Nehele.

  She had the look of their people, too, and many men had thought the sharp bones of her face and the curves that lacked abundance made her less appealing as a lover—and her sharp tongue and temper discouraged most men from getting close to her. But it was exactly those things about her that excited him in ways no other woman had, and he understood why Gray could look at Cassidy—whom even the most generous supporter could not call pretty—and see a beautiful woman.

  Shira turned her head away from him, an evasive movement that wasn’t typical of her.

  He considered his words. You don’t see what I see. Then he considered the nature of a Black Widow’s Craft and felt a chill settle in his belly.

  “Shira? Have you seen something in a tangled web?”