All for a Rose

by Jennifer Blackstream

  Daman studied Kirill for a moment. Finally he inclined his head once. “Very well.”

  Kirill noticed that he remained with his back to a corner, keeping all five members of the council in view while remaining close to the door. Silently, Kirill congratulated him on his choice.

  “Now where was I? Ah, yes. The gentleman standing next to the table is Prince Patricio of Meropis and the gentleman seated in front of the fireplace is Prince Saamal of Mu.”

  Daman nodded to the towering angel, surprisingly unintimidated. Not many men could look at the over seven foot angel with his massive wingspan without taking a step back out of sheer instinct. The massive sword hanging at his side didn’t help him appear any more approachable. Saamal, despite being the most powerful being in the room, was also the least intimidating physically. It wasn’t until the god chose to use his powers that he could be seen for the terrifying being he was.

  “A pleasure to meet you.”

  Saamal’s voice was gentle and calm as always, and not for the first time, Kirill found himself wondering how much of the god’s placid exterior was genuine and how much was an attempt to put others at ease.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Daman answered amicably. He glanced back to Kirill with an expectant expression on his face.

  He has Adonis’ patience. Kirill muffled a sigh. “All right, let us get down to business then. Daman, you will no doubt have noticed that the land you now find yourself in is as yet untouched by civilization, other than the palace around you.”

  “I have.”

  “Well, due to circumstances that are unimportant at this time, my fellow council members and I find ourselves in the rather unique position of populating this new land by invitation.”

  Daman’s eyebrows rose. “You’re looking for settlers?”

  “In a manner of speaking. It is important when taking on an endeavor such as this one that—”

  “We’re willing to let you relocate abused changelings here in exchange for your willingness to relocate as well and help us govern as part of our new court,” Patricio interrupted.

  Kirill pulled one hand inside his cloak, closing long fingers around the hilt of his favorite dagger. The texture of the blade’s grip soothed him, helped him keep hold of his temper in the face of the angel’s blatant disrespect.

  Patricio crossed his arms and faced Kirill down without a sliver of apology in his blue gaze. “Some of us would like to get home at a reasonable hour. Not all of us are nocturnal.”

  “What do you know about the changelingss?” Daman’s pupils narrowed to draconic slits and his fingers twitched, tips sharpening into claws the color and shape of a crescent moon.

  “Thank you for putting our guest at ease, Patricio,” Kirill said tightly. “Done with your usual flair for comfort. Marcella would be so proud.”

  “Leave my wife out of this.” Patricio’s wings rose in the wind of his agitation.

  “Who wouldn’t want to join this family?” Adonis joked. He blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, blue-white tendrils curling outward as it rose. He winked at Daman. “Our winter solstice parties are unrivaled.”

  “Winter solstice…” Daman blinked.

  Not for the first time, Kirill was impressed with Adonis’ ability to put others at ease. His political guile was deplorable, but his genuine likeability was lethal.

  “Daman,” Kirill said, facing the naga. “The angel, in all his ham-fistedness, is correct. We are building a society here from the ground up. I have heard much about you, many stories from grateful changelings who have found happiness with the families you find for them. I have seen for myself how dedicated you are. You are precisely the type of man that could help us build a court to be proud of, respected. In exchange for your guidance, your participation in our endeavors, we would be pleased to let you bring changelings here. Surely there is no place they would be safer than a land accessible only by invitation?”

  He didn’t look around the room at the other princes, silently willing them not to contradict him. After all, for the most part, it was true that this new kingdom could be accessed only by invitation. Though it was possible for the unwary to accidentally stumble through the portal if they passed close enough to the world tree.

  Daman glanced from one man to the other, but Kirill could see his mind working behind his silver eyes. The naga’s first responsibility was to his charges, his changelings. This land was safe for them, open to them.

  “What do you want from me?” Daman asked finally.

  Kirill smiled. “Etienne? Won’t you escort our guest to the map room so he can pick a location for his new home?”

  “I’m not your lapdog,” Etienne snapped.

  The handle of his dagger was soothing, as it always was. For what felt like the hundredth time that night alone, Kirill toyed with the idea of burying the blade somewhere in Etienne’s thigh. Not to kill him, or even lame him—lycanthrope physiology would protect him from any lasting damage—but just to let the beast know that his dismal attitude would have consequences. With a sigh, he pulled his hand from the weapon.

  “Saamal?”

  The god’s lip quirked as he pushed away a smile. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Daman, who had watched the exchange between Kirill and Etienne with a sharp silver-eyed stare that was far too discerning for Kirill’s taste, amiably followed Saamal out. Kirill waited until the door closed behind them and their footsteps faded away down the hall.

  “Etienne, for the love of all gods and demons everywhere, must you always be so disagreeable?”

  The lycanthrope folded his arms, muscles bunching with the movement. “Must you always be so manipulative?”

  “Manipulative? I thought we’d all agreed to invite Daman into our realm? What, pray tell, have I done to deserve such ire from you on this matter?”

  Golden eyes darkened to hard amber. “Do you think I don’t know about the pirate? Tyr, I believe he’s called? Aging pirate with one hand?”

  Kirill paused, careful to keep the tension from his face and shoulders. “What about him?”

  “Do you intend to tell Daman that it was you who arranged for pirates to steal Maribel’s family fortune? That it was your scheming that sent her family from their home at court to the farm where her poor sister suffered so?”

  Damn his eyes. “You’ve been talking with shady characters, my friend. Who would tell such stories?”

  “Wow, that’s a long game even for you,” Adonis piped up.

  Clove-scented smoke wafted past Kirill as the demon spoke, and he waved it away with a sharp flick of his hand. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “How many seers do you have working for you?” Patricio demanded, feathers rustling as he straightened to his full height. “Who is giving you such information that you can arrange events so far ahead of time?”

  Three. Kirill gave Patricio a blank stare. “What seers?”

  “He won’t tell you,” Adonis informed them. “Kirill plays his cards close to his dagger-laden vest.”

  “This is never going to work,” Etienne muttered. “Some high council we are. How could Eurydice ever have thought we could rule a kingdom together?”

  “Oh, don’t be so sour, my wolfish friend,” Adonis insisted, sauntering over to clap a clawed hand on Etienne’s back. “We’re all getting along swimmingly. Just a few growing pains, that’s all.” He took another puff from his cigarette and patted Etienne on the back. “You just need to accept our vampire companion for who he is. Fangs, weapons, seers, and all.”

  “This kingdom is doomed,” Patricio muttered.

  “Oh, take heart, angelic prince,” Kirill soothed. “Wait until you see my next candidate…”

  THE END

  I hope you enjoyed book one of the spin-off series. If you haven’t yet read the series that spawned this new kingdom, for a very limited time, you can get book one and a bonus adventure by signing up for my mailing list or the giveaway mentioned at the begi
nning of this ebook.

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  Preview of BLUE VOODOO, book two in the Hidden Kingdom series

  Chapter One

  “I can’t believe you put your faith in this swamp witch.”

  The butler’s censure fell over Dominique like an upended drawer of cooking knives, sharp tones cutting and brash. It wasn’t the first comment he’d made during her short visit, nor did she think it would be his last. Unacceptable, considering he had never been invited to witness this meeting in the first place. Breathe. Dominique didn’t look at the butler, didn’t give him the satisfaction of reacting at all. Instead, she picked up the small pouch of soot set out amongst her other ingredients on the stone floor beside her. Singing under her breath to the loa, Agwe, she added the soot to a hollowed pumpkin gourd, letting it drift down to join the powdered lizard, red precipitate, and the soil she’d gathered this morning from a local crossroad.

  The warm caress of her power hummed through her fingertips, infusing the concoction with the energy of the loa, the mystical messengers that bridged the void between humans and the great god Bondye. The sensation was as familiar and soothing to her as her own heartbeat. Energy built, spreading outward in ever growing circles, filling the room with the kiss of magic.

  Her client, a cook named Widelene, sat on a stool near where Dominique worked. Even as her body remained slumped in her seat, she tracked every movement with sharp curiosity. The lines around her eyes were deeper than they should be, painting the woman’s exhaustion over her face for the world to see. It was no wonder she’d come to Dominique for help. The poor woman hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in over a week.

  But that was about to change.

  Dominique rubbed oil into the wick she’d pulled from her bag, then suspended it over the ingredients in the gourd with two slivers of ivory bone. “Those dreams won’t bother you anymore, Widelene. Take this and hang it from a tree in front of your house. Light it at sundown and douse it after you wake. The ingredients must be replaced every week for seven weeks and then you must throw the whole thing into the sea and say a prayer of thanks to Agwe. I will come to check on you next week and will bring fresh ingredients then.”

  Widelene’s cloudy brown eyes bounced from Dominique to the butler behind her. “Th-thank you so much, Madame Laveau.”

  Dominique inclined her head, the tail of her sunset-hued cotton head wrap sliding over her shoulder to brush the neckline of her white blouse.

  “Don’t thank her.” The butler took an agitated step forward. “She hasn’t done anything but make a fool out of you.”

  More color drained from Widelene’s face until her normal ebony complexion was nearly as light as Dominique’s own sienna hue. Her gaze flicked from Dominique to the butler and back. The sour man was above her in the house hierarchy and could make her working life miserable if he chose. But Dominique was a voodoo priestess, someone with power and influence amongst the loa, messengers to Bondye. The lines on her face deepened even more, her breathing becoming ragged.

  Dominique rested a hand on Widelene’s knee, offering silent support. She rose to her feet from the position she’d been kneeling in for the last half hour.

  Slowly. Slowly.

  Keeping an iron grip on her balance, Dominique gained her feet in one smooth, unhurried motion, careful not to betray any of the sharp stabs of pain that pricked her knees and ankles from their time spent holding still in an uncomfortable position. She turned to confront the butler like an actress in a play, the movement graceful and dramatic, giving the man plenty of time to reflect on what she might say—what she might do. Her eyes locked on his.

  “Gerard Xavier Roche.”

  She enunciated every syllable, rolling them on her tongue. The skin at Gerard’s temples tightened, but his lip retained its derisive curl. His impeccably groomed hair was liberally sprinkled with grey, providing a contrast to skin the color of water on a moonless night. “So you know my name. You think that frightens me?” He snorted. “If that’s all you have, voodoo queen, then be on your way.” He glared at Widelene, his voice rising the deeper she huddled into her shawl. “You’ve gotten all the fool’s adulation you’re going to get here.”

  Dominique slashed her hand through the air, halting with her fingers inches from his head. The butler tensed, but held his ground, hands balled tightly at his side like he was bracing for impact.

  “Gerard. Xavier. Roche.”

  With a flick of her wrist, Dominique plucked a hair from Gerard’s head, holding the strand inches in front of the butler’s nose. He pressed his lips together, firmly biting back whatever words he wanted to let fly. Power pulsed inside her, waiting to be used, but she ignored it. She didn’t need power for the likes of him. She leaned forward and put her lips a hair’s breath away from the shell of his ear.

  “The gambling tables can be so cruel. Can’t they, Gerard Xavier Roche?”

  The flinch that rattled the butler’s body was quick and violent. He swayed a little as though he would step back, but foolish pride was enough to help him stubbornly hold his ground.

  “Time to count the family silver.” Dominique’s breath ghosted over his skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake.

  Gerard staggered back like he’d been struck, the full weight of his body pulling his shoulders down and his jaw sagging open. Widelene—the source of that particular bit of knowledge—let out a strangled whimper before she quickly remembered herself and covered her mouth. Dominique made a show of putting the hair into the pocket of her skirt, patting it as she looked down her nose at its origin.

  “Respect is very important, Gerard Xavier Roche. Those who do not know whom to give it to will often find the lesson that follows to be very…unpleasant.”

  With that parting shot, she swept out of the kitchen. Pointedly ignoring the servants’ exit, she strode up the stairs to the main house. Her burgundy skirts swirled around her legs, the heavy material rubbing against her like a friendly cat. She hauled it over her boots to keep her petticoats from tangling around her in an undignified fashion as she flowed through the foyer to the front doors.

  “Madame Laveau, I didn’t realize you were here.”

  The deep voice vibrated Dominique’s insides with the strength of the baritone. She recognized it immediately and spun around with open arms. “Leonaldo, what a pleasure.”

  The lord of the manor strode across the foyer with the ambling gait of a man comfortable with himself and his environment. His skin was as dark as his voice was deep, his teeth a brilliant crescent moon in a night sky. He held his arms out and Dominique allowed him to fold her into his embrace, chuckling as he squeezed her and rocked her from side to side.

  “You do not come around enough,” Lord Mercier told her, pulling back to see her properly. “You grow more beautiful every time I see you.”

  “Shameless flattery is always welcome.” Dominique responded to her host’s joy with a full smile of her own. “And you are looking handsome as well.”

  Lord Mercier rolled his eyes. “Are you sure about that? Have I not gone completely grey, then?”

  She eyed the lord’s head of dark, well-groomed hair. There was a fair dusting of silver strands making themselves known, but he was far from being completely grey. “Something is driving the color from your hair, then?”

  “Pah!”

  Intrigued by that succinct response, Dominique followed the direction of the lord’s stare to the back of the house and caught a glimpse of a young servant biting his lip in deep concentration as he struggled to balance
a tray full of dishes. His blue eyes were locked on the porcelain as if he could will them to stay put, his pale cheeks holding a pink tint that spoke of more exertion than such a task warranted. The tray teetered precariously and she had to avert her eyes or be overcome with a case of sympathetic nerves. “A new recruit, I see. He does not appear to be from Ville au Camp?”

  “He is not.” Lord Mercier winced and looked away as if he too couldn’t bear the suspense of waiting for the tea set’s death. “A good friend’s daughter grew sweet on the boy during a visit to Nysa, and when they moved here to Sanguennay, she begged me to employ the lad so he could come as well.”

  There was a gasp from the kitchen and Dominique tensed, her nerves screaming as they predicted the inevitable crash. “I’m sure he’ll fit in after he’s had a bit more time.”

  “You have been away for a long time,” Lord Mercier pointed out tersely. “He’s already been here for seven months.”

  She winced. “Oh dear.”

  “He sticks out like a sheep in a horse herd,” Lord Mercier grumbled. “Practically glows in the dark. My wife got up in the middle of the night and nearly fainted dead away when she glanced out the window and saw him chasing down the dog he’d let out. Swore there was a ghost trying to eat her petit chien.”

  Choking back a laugh, Dominique covered her mouth with her hand. The only reason the boy stood out so painfully was because Lord Mercier made it a point to only hire people from his homeland of Ville au Camp. Rumor was the lord had been run out of his homeland after he’d been falsely accused of fixing the games of chance in his gambling establishment to ensure no one would win without his consent—a deadly serious crime amongst a people who so dearly prized their games. He couldn’t go back home, and so he strove to make his manor here in Sanguennay into a replica of his beloved Ville au Camp, from the fanciful colors of the curtains to the dark skin of his household members.

  “I had to take him off gardening duty,” Lord Mercier confided. “Boiled like a lobster before he’d been out an hour.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “Perhaps you’re right. I shouldn’t be so hard on him.”