by Anne Bishop
For the same reason you’ve got your ass snuggled into the sofa. Which was not something a witch said to any male relative who was bigger than she was and wore darker Jewels than she did.
“Doesn’t he have family of his own to fuss over?”
Hell’s fire. He was going to get pissy about this.
“Actually,” she said, “he doesn’t.” A flicker in Daemon’s eyes warned her he was aware of the lie within the words—he knew perfectly well Rainier had family living in Dharo—but he didn’t know why the words were also true. And she wasn’t looking forward to being the one to tell him. “His family prefers that he stay away.”
“Because he prefers to warm a man’s bed rather than a woman’s?”
It was like seeing a storm coming and knowing you couldn’t get out of the way in time.
“No,” she said softly, “it’s because he’s a Warlord Prince.”
A heartbeat. That’s all it took. Daemon, the amused male relative, was gone. The Warlord Prince who looked at her…Not the Sadist, who could be so elegantly vicious. Thank the Darkness, it wasn’t that facet of Daemon’s personality that had surfaced. No, this was Prince Sadi, ruler of Dhemlan, who was considering the depth of the insult contained within her words.
“They aren’t like our family,” she said hurriedly.
A moment of silence. Then, too softly, he said, “Explain.”
She didn’t dare look at the clock to see how much time was left. It didn’t matter. This discussion had to be over, done, fast.
“Most of the males in the SaDiablo-Yaslana family are, or were, Warlord Princes. So none of you are different from the rest. You know how to live with a Warlord Prince. The women in this family know how to live with a Warlord Prince. But Rainier…From what I gathered, there had been a couple of Warlord Princes in the family bloodlines over the generations, but they’d worn lighter Jewels, so the more aggressive, predatory nature”—Shit! Don’t remind him of that!—“of a Warlord Prince was balanced by not having as much power. But Rainier wears an Opal Jewel that’s considered a dark Jewel. His family didn’t know what to do with him when he was young and wore Purple Dusk as his Birthright, and as sure as the sun doesn’t shine in Hell, they don’t know what to do with him now.”
“So they turn away from him.”
Oh, yeah. This was turning into a fun discussion.
“To his benefit, since they don’t deserve to have him.” She put some snap in her voice, hoping for a flash of amusement from him.
Nothing.
“A Warlord Prince needs a female to fuss over—if not family, then a friend,” she finished quietly.
“Having his company for the evening is fine, Surreal, but—”
“He’ll be staying for breakfast.”
Long pause. “You trust him that much?”
Now they had gotten to the core of it. Did she trust a man who wasn’t family during the hours when she was asleep and would be the most vulnerable? “Yes, I trust him that much. So go home to your wife, Sadi.” Then I can read this book however I want to.
Another pause. Then the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan took a deep breath—and Daemon let it out in a sigh as he stood up.
“All right, then.” Using Craft, he vanished all the papers and called in his black jacket. He slipped on the jacket, then ran his fingers—with their long, perfectly manicured, black-tinted nails—through his hair. Now the hair looked bedroom-disheveled. Now the partially unbuttoned shirt looked like a lure to attract and entice.
Which was insane, because the only woman who could safely have Daemon Sadi as a lover was Jaenelle Angelline, since she was the only woman he wanted for a lover.
Don’t just sit here. Get up. Move. You’ve got no fighting room in this position.
Then a little flash, a blink of light near the floor. Nothing there, but…
He was still barefoot. There was something too sensual about him still being barefoot when he was wearing that silk shirt, the expensive jacket, and the too-well-tailored trousers that taunted women with a hint of what they couldn’t have.
She pondered the feet and not the significance of their movement until he was leaning over her, one hand resting on the arm of her chair, the fingertips of the other hand drifting down the page of her book, then over her thumb and wrist.
She actually felt her heart skip a beat in anticipation of a kiss before it began pounding like a rabbit’s.
Why was he doing this? What did he want from her? Those golden eyes held hers, demanding her attention. The way his mouth curved in a hint of a smile seemed to promise all kinds of delights. Which was probably the exact look the Terreillean Queens who had used him saw right before he killed them.
Then his lips brushed her cheek and lingered there as his chained sexual heat washed over her.
“Enjoy your evening, cousin,” he said.
He eased back—and glided out of the room.
Had he used Craft to open and close the door, or had he used the power that lived within him to simply pass through the wood? She didn’t know, didn’t care. She felt a bit breathless—and more than a little scared. When Daemon was the Sadist, he used sex as a terrifying weapon. She felt as if she’d brushed against that side of his temper, but she didn’t know why he’d be angry with her.
Maybe nothing. Probably hadn’t even been aimed at her. Just feeling pissy about Rainier’s family was all.
Which reminded her.
Shaking off the sexual haze—which she wasn’t in any mood for anyway—she glanced at the clock. Rainier was late. Wasn’t that lovely? Now that she knew the book was meant to be silly, she wanted to read a little more. And she wanted to flip through and discover some of the other stupid things this Jarvis Jenkell thought the Blood did.
She picked up the book and tried to flip through the pages.
Tried to flip through the pages.
Tried to flip through the pages.
“That whoring son of a whoring bitch!”
As he walked down the town house’s steps, Daemon reached inside his black jacket. Then he stopped, baffled that he’d been reaching for a cigarette case he hadn’t carried in several years.
He couldn’t remember when he’d stopped smoking the black cigarettes. Sometime during the years when his mind had been shattered and he’d wandered the paths of madness the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom. During the years when he was slowly regaining his sanity and lived in hiding with Surreal and Manny, it hadn’t been prudent to call attention to themselves by adding an expensive item to their supplies when the invalid—and fictitious—owner of the island had never ordered cigarettes before. Now the only way to get the things would be to buy them from a supplier in the Realm of Terreille, and there was nothing he wanted from Terreille. Nothing.
Which didn’t explain his suddenly slipping into the movements of an old habit.
Then he looked up at the town house’s sitting room windows—and smiled.
His reaching for a cigarette had been a response to memories of the hundreds of times he and Surreal had spent an evening together in exactly the same way—enjoying each other’s company while pursuing individual interests. Which meant the two of them had finally circled back to being the friends they had been once upon a time.
She was twelve when he first met her and her mother, Titian. A pretty, leggy girl with the Hayllian coloring of black hair and light brown skin that had come from her sire, Kartane SaDiablo. But her eyes were gold-green instead of pure gold and larger than usual, and her ears were delicately pointed. The slightly oversized eyes and the ears, along with a slim body that was stronger than it looked, came from Titian, who had been a Black Widow Queen of the Dea al Mon, one of the Children of the Wood.
So Surreal had a dual bloodline, as it was politely called in Kaeleer. Hayllians were one of the long-lived races; the Dea al Mon were not. Her body had matured closer to the pace of the short-lived races, but her emotions…
Because he’d seen her only for an evening here and there, and becaus
e she’d had to grow up hard and fast after Titian was murdered, it hadn’t occurred to him that Surreal’s emotional maturity might develop at a slower pace, that even after a few centuries of being a whore and an assassin, she had still been more of an adolescent girl than a mature woman. So in a way, the night that had broken their friendship was as much his fault as hers.
She’d been young and foolish and drunk the night she had asked him to show her what Hayll’s Whore could do in bed. She’d said it would be a feather in her cap because no whore who worked in a Red Moon house could claim actual experience in bed with him. And he, who had thought of her as a young cousin, had been bitterly hurt at what he’d seen as a betrayal of his trust. So he had responded with a cold fury, and he had shown her what it was like to dance with the Sadist.
That night changed things between them, and it was only because of Jaenelle that their friendship began to mend. Jaenelle, who was Witch, the living myth, dreams made flesh. She had been a child when they had both met her. She grew up to be an extraordinary Queen. Then she sacrificed herself to stop the war being orchestrated by Hekatah and Dorothea SaDiablo—the High Priestess of Hell and the High Priestess of Hayll, respectively.
Because of their mutual commitment to Jaenelle, he and Surreal had found their way back to being friends—and family. Maybe it was because they were finally comfortable with each other again that his leave-taking had been as much warning as distraction. Even Surreal couldn’t afford to become complacent and forget what he was.
Now there was another connection he had to consider: Rainier.
Prince Rainier had met Jaenelle and the coven when he’d been hired to be their dance instructor. Unlike the instructors who had come before him, he had been no more than a few years older than them and had thrived on the contact with the young Queens who, not many years later, would rule Kaeleer. When Jaenelle formally became the Queen of Ebon Askavi, Rainier joined her court as a Second Circle escort, although he’d continued to make a living as a dance instructor.
Now there was no court at Ebon Askavi. Not officially. And that was the problem. The Warlords and Warlord Princes who had served in the First Circle already had a connection to other courts—usually the court of the Queen they had married or were related to in some way. But Rainier had served in the Dark Court, and when it ended, he could no longer legitimately claim to be serving a Queen. Oh, no one had pushed it during that first year, especially after they’d heard Jaenelle had survived. No one had disputed Rainier’s claim that he still served Witch in an unofficial capacity. But the day had been coming when other Queens wouldn’t have considered that a valid reason to refuse service in another court.
That was why he had hired Rainier and given the man a five-year contract, duties to be flexible and as needed. While no male born in the Shadow Realm was required to serve, it was assumed that most would spend some time serving in a court at one point in their lives or another. And Warlord Princes, who were considered a dangerous asset because of their tempers and nature, were sometimes treated as outcasts if a Queen wasn’t holding the leash. Even in Kaeleer.
Despite his family’s opinion of him, a man like Rainier would be a prize. He was a fine-looking man with a dancer’s lean build, fair skin, green eyes, and a mane of brown hair. He had an easy manner and a mild temper for a Warlord Prince. But while he made a delightful—and protective—companion, he wasn’t suited for bedroom duties. Even if Rainier had taken a contract with one of the coven—and because he was a friend, they had all offered him a contract—service in the bedroom for the other Ladies in the Queen’s First Circle would have been unspoken but understood.
Serving the new Warlord Prince of Dhemlan was the best solution. There was no court, so there were no Ladies who could demand service. And yet no one was going to argue that service to him wasn’t sufficient to control another Warlord Prince.
So the arrangement promised to work well for both of them.
And here comes the innocent now, Daemon thought, suppressing a grin as Rainier turned a corner and walked toward the town house, his stride easy and graceful.
“Prince Sadi,” Rainier said when he reached the town house’s steps.
“Prince Rainier,” Daemon replied.
Rainier’s eyes flicked to the town house’s door before focusing on the Prince he served.
“I’m on my way out,” Daemon said. “I understand that you’re on your way in. For the night.”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not for me.” Daemon stepped aside and waited until Rainier had climbed the stairs and raised the knocker on the door. “How are your reflexes this evening?”
Rainier twisted at the waist and looked down at him, clearly puzzled. “They’re fine. Why?”
“You may need to be fast on your feet.”
With that, Daemon walked away. It was a pleasant summer evening. Since he wasn’t expected home, he’d walk to his favorite bookshop and see if there was anything new that might whet Jaenelle’s appetite for stories.
Then he’d go home and see what he could do about whetting her other appetites.
“I saw Prince Sadi on my way in,” Rainier said as he walked into the sitting room. “He seemed amused about something.”
“Let’s see how amused he is when I put his balls through a meat grinder! While they’re still attached!”
To give him credit, Rainier didn’t turn and run out of the room. But he also didn’t come any closer. Surreal wasn’t sure if the wariness was sincere or a sop to her ego, since he was the dominant power right now, despite the fact that she wore Gray Jewels and he wore Opal. She didn’t care if it was sincerity or sop. She just wanted someone to howl at.
“Look what he did to my book!” she wailed, shaking the book at him. “Look!”
Cautious, he came closer. Encouraged that she wouldn’t lose her audience, she tried flipping through the pages to demonstrate.
“The pages are stuck together,” Rainier said. “Is the book defective?”
“He did this.” She turned the page, as if she’d finished reading it. That she could do. Then she tried flipping through pages and all the pages stuck together. “I can turn one page at a time, but if I want to skip around to—”
“Wouldn’t that spoil the story?” Rainier asked, breaking into her rant.
“Stop thinking like a male,” she snarled.
He grinned at her. The grin didn’t last long when she just stared at him.
“Sorry,” he said, doing his best to sound meek.
She looked down at the book, and her eyes filled with tears. Stupid to get weepy over something so foolish. Moontime moodies. Didn’t hit her often, thank the Darkness, but she was entitled to a mood or two when she didn’t feel well and couldn’t use Craft on top of it.
A tear plopped onto the back of her hand. She sniffled—and heard a low sound rumble through the room. Growl? Snarl? She looked up to ask Rainier and…
“He made you cry,” Rainier said, staring at her through the glazed eyes of a Warlord Prince who had risen to the killing edge.
“The bastard played a cruel trick and made you cry.” He took a step toward the sitting room door.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. He was going after Sadi. He saw tears and gut instinct kicked in, and he was going after Sadi, who was the most powerful male in the Realm. And Daemon, when challenged, would give Rainier a chance to back down—and then would lash out in response to his own predatory nature, destroying the other man completely.
“No.” The book went flying as she propelled herself out of the chair and grabbed his arm. “You’re not doing this.”
“He made you cry.”
“He pissed me off, and I got weepy. He wouldn’t have done it if he’d known I’d get weepy.” Which was true. On any other day, she would have raged for a few minutes and then tried to figure out how the spell worked. Or she would have stomped over to the nearest bookshop and bought another copy of the damn book.
“Rainier.”
At the moment, she had some sympathy for his family’s inability to deal with a Warlord Prince, but she wasn’t going to let him leave. She could think of a lot cleaner ways to commit suicide than challenging Daemon. If that meant channeling her power when her body couldn’t tolerate being the vessel for that power, so be it. She’d slap enough shields around Rainier to cage him for a while. It would hurt like a wicked bitch, but she’d do it. And then she’d grab the fastest messenger she could find to ride the Winds to Ebon Rih and deliver a message to Lucivar. He’d arrive with that Eyrien temper of his stoked to the point of explosion and yell at Rainier for considering something so stupid. He’d yell at her too, for hurting herself by using Craft when she shouldn’t. And then he and Rainier would be merciless about fussing over her because, to their stone-headed way of thinking, she needed to be fussed over.
What did Jaenelle keep telling her? Work with a Warlord Prince’s nature instead of trying to work against it.
She sagged against Rainier so suddenly, he grabbed her to keep her on her feet.
“Surreal?”
Razor-sharp tone, but not the killing edge. This was worry now, focused completely on her.
Good.
“You promised to stay with me tonight,” she said. Don’t sound pathetic. He won’t believe it for a moment if you sound pathetic.
“I know but—”
“A mood, Rainier. Just a mood. You don’t ask a man to step onto the killing field for a mood.” At least, not in Kaeleer. The bitches in Terreille had done it all the time.
He studied her, and she could feel the tension in him slowly fading.
“That’s all it is?” he finally asked. “Just a mood?”
She nodded, then rested her head on his shoulder. It was nice to have a male friend. Her one attempt at a romantic relationship with a man had left her with a heart bruised badly enough to wither any sexual interest she had in the gender. At least for the time being. So it was nice to spend time with a male who didn’t want her to be more than a friend.
All she had to do was avoid getting him killed.
“Was there anything you wanted to do this evening?” Rainier asked.
