by Anne Bishop
The brilliance of an idea dazzled her for a moment.
“Well,” she said, “I was curious about that book, especially now that I know the things in there about the Blood are very silly. But I don’t want the frustration of those stuck-together pages.” And she was going to send Daemon a blistering letter about tricks that almost backfire.
No. Not Daemon. She’d send a note to Uncle Saetan. He may have retired from being the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, he may have taken up residence at the Keep as a retreat from the living Realms, but he was still the patriarch of the SaDiablo family, and no one could flay an erring son with a look or a phrase as well as the High Lord of Hell.
Cheered by the thought, she almost didn’t respond in time when Rainier said, “I could read the story to you, if that would be pleasing.”
“I’d like that.” She stepped back. “I’m going to freshen up first. Could you see about getting some food we could nibble on?”
A relaxed smile and a look of pleased anticipation in his eyes. “I could do that.”
As she climbed the stairs to her room on the second floor, Surreal considered how annoying the evening might have been. She would have wanted to read the book; Rainier would have wanted some way to look after her, and his need to fuss would have scraped on her temper. Now, with him reading the story to her, they could talk about it and laugh over it, and they would both have an enjoyable, entertaining evening.
She paused outside the door of her room to consider everything that had happened.
One spell, designed to annoy her just enough. One man, who understood the nature of Warlord Princes all too well.
Since Daemon had found a clever way to take care of her and Rainier, maybe she wouldn’t send that note to Uncle Saetan after all.
She shook her head and smiled as she walked into her bedroom. “Sneaky bastard.”
TWO
Early morning. Cool air against his bare skin—air that held the promise of heat later in the day.
No longer sleeping and not quite awake, Daemon breathed in the scent of his wife, his love, his Queen, and breathed out a sigh of contentment. His hand caressed Jaenelle’s thigh, traveled up her belly. Not to arouse, just to confirm that she was here, was real. It wasn’t something he took for granted.
Then his hand moved higher, curved around a breast, and he smiled with pleasure at the feel of that warm, round flesh against his palm and the caress of soft, thick fur against the back of his hand.
Fur?
Fully awake now, he opened his golden eyes halfway. He tried straightening his legs, but the weight that was pressed against the back of his knees gave an annoyed grunt followed by a sleepy yawn.
Ladvarian. The Sceltie was a Red-Jeweled Warlord and the most trusted liaison between human Blood and kindred, who were the Blood of the nonhuman races that lived in Kaeleer. He’d been a puppy when he’d decided Jaenelle belonged to him as his Queen and had come to live with her at the Hall. Years later, he’d been the stubborn heart that had rallied the kindred to do the impossible and save Jaenelle when she’d been torn apart by the power she had unleashed to stop a war.
The kindred had developed a fine sense of when not to come into the bedroom, but Daemon had gotten so used to some of their psychic scents that their presence no longer roused him from sleep when they slipped into the room.
Didn’t mean it didn’t annoy him to wake up and discover company in his wife’s bed. Especially since the bed was big enough to be a small room and there was no reason to be crowding him. Unless…
He raised his head and looked at the bed’s fourth occupant.
Kaelas lay on his back, sprawled over the large bed. Eight hundred pounds of limp Arcerian cat. An enormous blanket of white fur.
Kaelas stared at him through half-lidded eyes. Daemon couldn’t decide if it was a deliberate imitation of his own look or lazy arrogance.
Daemon bared his teeth, a show of dominance.
Kaelas bared his teeth, leaving no doubt that his teeth were more impressive.
Contentment vanished. Temper scratched. It didn’t matter that Kaelas wasn’t a rival lover. It didn’t matter that he usually tolerated the cat’s presence, acknowledging that the Red-Jeweled Warlord Prince was one of Jaenelle’s fiercest protectors. What mattered was that on this particular morning, he, who was Jaenelle’s husband, didn’t want to share her bed with a damn cat!
The feelings swelled, bubbled up, demanded an outlet.
Daemon snarled, using Craft to let that soft sound roll through the room like thunder.
Kaelas snarled, not needing Craft to fill the room.
Then Jaenelle snarled.
Suddenly he was the only male in the bed.
«We’ll tell Beale you need coffee,» Ladvarian said, using a psychic spear thread to keep the comment just between the males.
«You do that,» Daemon replied, watching the way Kaelas shifted from one paw to the other, as if uncertain whether to stay or run.
Jaenelle stirred.
Kaelas sprang toward the glass doors connected to the balcony that looked out over Jaenelle’s courtyard. He passed through the glass, leaped over the balcony railing, and landed in the courtyard two floors below.
Ladvarian ran straight for the inside wall and passed through it to the corridor, no doubt racing to find Beale and inform the Hall’s butler that the Lady was awake.
Which left him to deal with his wife, who was not the friendliest person first thing in the morning.
He kissed her bare shoulder, an acknowledgment that he knew she was awake. “Good morning.”
He’d been a pleasure slave for centuries when he’d lived in Terreille. He knew all the nuances for playing bedroom games. The rules were different for a husband, but a lot of what he’d learned about women still applied. So he kept his voice warm and loving, with just a husky hint of sex—enough to tell her she was desirable but not enough to imply he had any expectations.
She shifted. Turned toward him. There was nothing loving or loverlike in the sapphire eyes that stared at him.
“You woke me up.”
A shiver of fear went down his spine. He had seen her in the Misty Place, that place deep in the abyss where she appeared as the Self that lived within the human skin—a Self that clearly revealed that not all the dreamers who had woven this dream into flesh had been human.
Despite the fact that the body still looked like Jaenelle, it was Witch who stared at him. And Witch was not pleased.
“Sorry,” he said, brushing his fingers over her short golden hair. “Didn’t mean to.”
She braced one hand against his shoulder and pushed.
He could have resisted, physically, but he’d waited seventeen hundred years for her, and he could no more disobey her than he could stop loving her. So he rolled onto his back, passive, knowing he wouldn’t defend himself from anything she did to him.
She settled over him, her nails lightly pricking his shoulders. She rubbed against him—and his cock responded with enthusiasm.
“You woke me up.”
She nipped his lower lip, then settled in for a long, slow kiss that had his blood pumping. The scent of her arousal, both physical and psychic, filled him until there was nothing but need and desire.
Then she ended the kiss and her teeth closed over his throat. Not a love bite on his neck, but a predator’s hold meant to strangle the prey. No pressure, no real menace from her, but the hold—and what it stood for—shredded the chains that usually held a Warlord Prince within the boundaries of civilized self-control.
His long nails whispered down her back, encouraging her to take him. His hands rested on her ass for a moment. Then he pricked her with his nails just hard enough to have her hips pushing down against him.
Snarling, she raised her head.
“You woke me up,” she said for the third time.
This wasn’t lovemaking, and it wasn’t just sex. He wasn’t sure there was a word for where they were at that moment.
And he didn’t care.
Lifting his head, he licked her throat as he shifted her hips and sheathed himself inside her. Then he purred, “I guess I’ll have to make it up to you.”
Daemon watched his hand as he poured a cup of coffee, pleased to see that the uncontrollable shakes had settled down to little tremors.
Their mating had been a combination of unrestrained arousal mixed with dollops of fear, which, because of the woman, had intensified his excitement. Sex that was savage and yet still tender, that was all physical and yet was possible only because of the depth of their feelings for each other. When they were done, Jaenelle had staggered into the bathroom, and he, braced by self-discipline and sheer stubbornness, had stumbled his way to the bathroom in the adjoining Consort’s suite. In safe privacy, he had braced his hands against the shower walls, and while the hot water poured over him, his body shook in response to what he’d been doing in bed with the woman who was his wife and Queen.
He sincerely hoped they would enjoy each other like that again in the future. And he hoped, just as sincerely, that it wouldn’t be anytime soon.
“I thought men liked morning sex,” Jaenelle said, looking baffled.
“We do,” Daemon replied. Of course, “sex” was a pale word to describe what they had been doing, but he wasn’t about to debate her choice of words. Especially since she was watching the hand holding the coffee cup. Had noted the tremors. “Of course we do.”
The baffled look changed to something that was almost angry, almost hostile. “You said it didn’t matter. You said you could accept that I no longer wore Ebony Jewels, was no longer dominant.”
Her quiet intensity alarmed him. He set the cup down. “It doesn’t matter. I can accept it. What is this about?”
“It’s about that.” She waved a hand to indicate his own. “It’s about pretending that you were with a witch who was stronger than you, and now acting all shaky and nervous.”
Sweetheart, you didn’t see the look in your eyes when we were in bed. But he saw the problem now. Despite having gotten married twice—once in a private ceremony and again in a public ceremony a few weeks later—she still wasn’t certain he had accepted the choice she had made.
After he’d dealt with the witches who had tried to stop the wedding by hurting her, Jaenelle had brought him to the Misty Place and shown him the truth. So he knew she could have been exactly the same as she had been before she’d sacrificed herself to save Kaeleer. She could have worn the Ebony Jewels again instead of Twilight’s Dawn, which had only a hint of Black. But she hadn’t wanted that much power, had never wanted to be so different and so distant from everyone else. And everyone around her, everyone who had loved her, was still adjusting to what they thought of as a loss.
“I’ll agree with the part about my being shaky, but I’ll dispute the accusation that I’m pretending to be nervous.” He put enough punch in his voice to assure he’d have her attention.
“Men pretend sometimes. You can’t tell me they don’t.”
He acknowledged that fact with a nod. “Sometimes a man does pretend he’s a little intimidated by the woman he’s bedding, even if he’s the one wearing the darker Jewels.” And sometimes it wasn’t pretense; men just didn’t argue with women’s incorrect assessment—mostly because they figured women wouldn’t understand that the power that was sometimes being wielded had nothing whatsoever to do with the Jewels.
To give himself a moment to collect his thoughts, he picked up the cup and took a sip of coffee.
Damn. If he’d known they were going to have this kind of discussion, he would have put a warming spell on the cup. He swallowed the cold coffee and set the cup down.
“Would you say our enjoyment of each other this morning was intense?” he asked. “Because I would.”
A blush stained Jaenelle’s cheeks. She nodded.
Daemon sighed, a sound of strained patience. Or patient exasperation. “Sweetheart, sometimes the body reacts. Should I apologize for feeling weak in the knees and quivering? I’m your husband, and I’m your lover. Being both—being able to be both—still takes my breath away.”
She studied him a moment longer, then reached across the table. He clasped her hand, craving the touch.
And that touch was enough to rekindle his arousal. He let his chained sexual heat wash over both of them, leaving her with no doubt that if they ended up in bed before the breakfast dishes were cleared, he would be the dominant partner.
She offered him a small, embarrassed smile before she released his hand and picked up her fork, a clear signal that she wasn’t ready for another romp in bed.
Then again, neither was he. Not really.
Relieved they could change the subject, he poured more coffee and gave his attention to his own breakfast. Since he’d already had his exercise for the day—and more—he was ravenous.
“What are you planning to do today?” he asked.
“I’m meeting Marian. We’re going to walk through the building we’re going to transform into a spooky house.” Jaenelle gave him a bright smile that said, Ask me. Come on, ask me.
No sane man with any kind of functioning brain would go near that statement. But he knew his duty as a husband, so he said, “Spooky house?”
Jaenelle swallowed a bite of omelet. “I was visiting one of the landen villages that’s located near the family vineyards, and I got to talking to some of the boys. They had the strangest ideas of what the Blood are like—especially since common sense should tell them the things they think can’t be true.”
“They’re boys,” he said. “They don’t have common sense.”
“No doubt, but I thought it would be fun to create a house based on all the silly, spooky things they think we live with day to day. There are usually harvest festivals in the late autumn. We could have it ready by then as an entertainment.”
“An entertainment.” Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. “Where is this entertainment?”
“We got a big old house in a landen village located in the central part of Dhemlan. Well, I bought it. It’s structurally sound, but it looks…” She shrugged.
There was something stuck in his throat. He was pretty sure it was his heart. “You bought a house?” And didn’t tell me?
“Yes.”
She gave him an unsure but game smile—and he had a sudden understanding of the terror his father, the powerful, Black-Jeweled High Lord of Hell, must have felt during Jaenelle’s adolescence when greeted by that smile.
“What are you doing today?” Jaenelle asked.
Had Marian told Lucivar about this spooky house? Surely the lovely Eyrien hearth witch hadn’t kept it a secret from her own husband! Which was a thought he wasn’t going to follow to its logical conclusion because then he would start to wonder why his own lovely wife hadn’t informed him until now.
But if Lucivar had known, why hadn’t the prick sent a warning? A man did not need to be blindsided by something like this at the breakfast table. Or any other time, for that matter.
“Daemon?”
“Uh?” Pay attention, fool. “Oh, I have some paperwork to finish up for my meetings with the Province Queens.” He focused on his coffee cup and added, oh so casually, “And I thought I would drop in at the Keep and see how Father is doing.”
“Uh-huh.” Jaenelle sliced her omelet in half, put a half between two pieces of toast, and wrapped her breakfast in her napkin. “I have to run if I’m going to be on time to meet up with Marian. She’s a little nervous about doing this.”
I wonder why. “Are you taking one of the Coaches?”
“No, I’ll just ride the Winds.” She drained her coffee cup and stood up.
Something not quite right here. “It shouldn’t take that long to reach the landen village, should it?”
She came around the table and gave him a sweet kiss. “No, it won’t take that long.” Then she gave him a wicked grin. “But first I have to yell at the cat for waking me up.”<
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THREE
How did I get talked into this? Marian wondered as she followed Jaenelle into the next gloomy room of the old landen house that had sat empty and neglected for the past decade or more. Of course, based on what she’d seen so far, the house hadn’t been cared for even when people had lived in it.
She waited until Jaenelle nudged open one of the slatted shutters to let in dingy light through the grimy window. Then she looked around and decided this was the worst room yet. Judging by the furniture, this must have been the dining room. Judging by the wallpaper, the people who had lived here must have wanted to discourage everyone from lingering over a meal.
“Cobwebs,” Jaenelle said, looking at the corners of the room.
Marian winced as she forced herself to take a closer look around. She was here because her hearth witch practicality provided balance for Jaenelle’s more whimsical ideas. Besides, they were family. Jaenelle had been adopted by Lucivar’s father when she was twelve, so even though there was no bloodline connecting them, Jaenelle was Lucivar’s sister—and Lucivar’s Queen. Since Marian was Lucivar’s wife, that meant Jaenelle was also her sister now.
And there was another connection between them. If Jaenelle hadn’t saved her and brought her to Kaeleer, she wouldn’t have survived the attack by five Eyrien Warlords, and if she hadn’t survived, she wouldn’t have fallen in love with a strong, wonderful man, and she wouldn’t have a son.
So she owed Jaenelle. But debt or not, family or not, there was only so much ick a hearth witch could handle.
“Yes,” she said. “Those cobwebs definitely will have to be cleaned out.”
“No. Well, yes, those will have to be cleaned out, but we’ll put new cobwebs in the corners. Black, sooty strands. Clots and layers. Maybe add an illusion spell in a couple of them so it looks like there’s something moving.”
Marian shuddered. Her membranous wings, shades darker than her brown skin, were pulled in tight to her body, an instinctive response to make herself look smaller. “They think our homes have cobwebs?” She wasn’t sure if she was insulted or appalled.
