Tangled Webs bj-6

by Anne Bishop

  “Stay here,” he said.

  Another hesitation as he stepped over the threshold. The command would keep the boy out for a minute or two, but not much longer. But if he shut Daemonar outside, he wouldn’t have even that much time to assess what was upsetting Marian before Daemonar voiced his unhappiness loud enough to be heard all the way to Riada. So he left the door open and strode across the large entry room to the archway that led to the kitchen.

  “Marian?” he said softly.

  His voice startled her enough that she kicked one of the metal buckets—and said words he’d never heard her say before.

  “Your sister,” she panted as she gathered up rags and mops and brooms. “Those maggot-brained little beasts.”

  He flinched a little over the word “maggot,” then shifted into a fighting stance. Just as a precaution. He wasn’t sure why looking at an old house would cause this reaction, but—Hell’s fire!—something had her riled up.

  “My home is going to be clean.”

  He wasn’t sure if that was a wail of despair or a declaration of war.

  “Our home is clean,” he said calmly.

  She turned on him so fast, he took two steps back before he was aware of moving.

  “Don’t you patronize me, Lucivar Yaslana. Don’t you dare!”

  He raised his hands chest high in a gesture of surrender and kept his mouth shut. There was no point trying to reason with her until she started sounding a little more like Marian and less like some hysterical, mop-wielding Harpy.

  “My h-home does not have cobwebs in the corners or rats skittering in the walls or decaying bodies.”

  Just as well he hadn’t told her about the partially eaten rabbit the wolf pups had left in one of the out-of-the-way rooms. He’d gotten rid of the carcass—and the maggots—hadn’t he? And he’d scrubbed everything down to get rid of the smell.

  Maybe he hadn’t scrubbed everything down quite well enough?

  “Mama!”

  Lucivar shifted just enough to block entry into the kitchen. Daemonar, who was pelting toward the opening, smacked into his leg.

  Before the boy could voice his displeasure, Marian wailed, “They think we live like that!” Then the wail changed to a snarl as she added, “I need to clean.”

  Since he’d spent the past few years teaching her how to defend herself with objects she would normally have at hand, he was looking at a pissed-off woman whose hands were full of potential weapons.

  “All right.” He nudged his son back with his foot. After Daemonar heard his mother snarl, instinct had kept the boy silent and cautious—and watching everything while hiding behind his father. “Why don’t I stop by The Tavern later and pick up something for dinner?” When she bared her teeth, he added, “It’s just a suggestion, Marian, not a criticism.”

  The wild look in her eyes finally faded enough for him to see the wife he loved in the riled woman standing before him.

  “That would be good,” she said.

  Still watching Marian, Lucivar crouched and picked up Daemonar. “We’ll get out of your way for a while.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, just turned and headed back out to the yard. Once the door was closed and he was moving toward the far end of the lawn, he began to relax.

  That’s when he fully realized what he’d done, and he jerked to a stop.

  He was an Eyrien Warlord Prince. He wore Ebon-gray Jewels. He was the third most powerful male in the Realm of Kaeleer. And he’d just run from a hearth witch who wore Purple Dusk Jewels.

  Of course, the usual rules of battle didn’t apply to a wife, which put him at a distinct disadvantage when it came to dealing with her.

  A little hand pressed against his face, so he turned his head and looked at his son.

  “Mama was scary,” Daemonar said.

  “Ooooh yeah.” He gave Daemonar a smacking kiss that made the boy laugh. “Come on, boyo. We’ll just play outside for a while longer.”

  And, he hoped, wife and son would both be tired out in a few hours, so he could tuck them in before heading to the Hall for his chat with Daemon.

  “The house has a lot of potential,” Jaenelle said as she faced the mirror over her dressing table and fastened a sapphire and ruby earring to her left ear. Her eyes met Daemon’s as she smiled. “But I think the condition of the house had Marian a little upset.”

  Damn. He’d hoped the lovely hearth witch would be able to calm her husband a little before Lucivar got here. If Marian was upset, Lucivar would arrive at the Hall as a walking explosion.

  “So you’re going to do this.” He’d thought about it all afternoon. There wasn’t anything dangerous about this spooky house; it was just a silly amusement. The Darkness knew the Queens in Terreille had done some vicious things in the name of amusement, and this wouldn’t hurt anyone. But something about it bothered him. He just couldn’t figure out why.

  “Yes, Daemon, we’re going to do this.”

  She fastened the other earring to her right ear, and his attention was caught by something much more interesting than an old house.

  He’d loved her long golden hair, had loved the feel of it in his hands or when it brushed over his skin. But the short hair, properly cut and styled thanks to Surreal’s badgering, nicely framed her face and revealed her neck. And that was the fascination.

  There was something about the spot where her neck and right shoulder met. Not the left side, just the right. An enticing scent. A special taste. It wasn’t something she put on her skin, and there wasn’t a scent gland under the skin. But for Warlord Princes, that particular spot was like catnip. They wanted to breathe in the scent of it, lick it, close their mouths over it, and—

  Down, boy. Don’t start what you can’t finish until much, much later.

  He hadn’t thought about how often he came up behind her and kissed that spot, lingering for a moment to get the taste of her, until he realized Lucivar did the same thing, except the kiss was quick and friendly. Until he noticed all the Warlord Princes in the First Circle did the same thing, even Kaelas and Jaal, so the fascination wasn’t just to human males.

  And it wasn’t exclusive to Jaenelle. He hadn’t noticed this behavior in Terreille, but every Queen in Kaeleer had that special little spot—a spot that appealed only to the Warlord Princes who served her.

  Which had him circling back around to Jaenelle’s hair. Long, it had hidden the enticement unless she put her hair up or braided it. Now the short golden hair led the eye down her neck right to that spot and—

  “Are you all right?” Jaenelle asked. “Your eyes are glazing.”

  It took a little too much effort to leash his libido, but he managed to do it. Or to be more precise, Jaenelle’s slightly puzzled, slightly amused look managed to do it. Besides, this wasn’t an evening to let his mind wander.

  “I’m fine.” He hesitated, then decided he’d better warn her.

  “Lucivar will be coming over after dinner.”

  She picked up a bottle of perfume he’d given her recently and applied a drop to her pulse points. “Is he upset about something?”

  “Yes.” No point in denying it.

  She set the bottle on the dressing table and turned to face him. It had been easier talking to her reflection than being pinned by those sapphire eyes.

  “Do you know what it is?” Witch asked.

  He shook his head. “But it’s…between brothers.”

  She turned back to the mirror and put on the multigemmed bracelet he’d given her before they were married, during the weeks when he’d been afraid she was going to turn away from him forever. “Then I’ll stay in the suite this evening. It sounds like this discussion would be easier if there are no distractions.”

  “I think so.” He wouldn’t have asked her to stay away, but he was relieved that she understood her presence would hinder any attempt at getting to the root of the problem.

  She walked over to him and gave him a soft kiss. “You’ll work it out. The two of you alway
s do.”

  Giving in to one need, he wrapped his arms around her and nuzzled that special spot on her neck.

  The psychic scent rolled through the lower rooms of the Hall, announcing Lucivar’s temper before he crossed the study’s threshold. Arrogance. Anger. And hurt.

  Daemon leaned back against the blackwood desk and waited for his brother to smash through the door.

  On second thought, enough things had already gotten smashed that day. He used Craft to open the study door just ahead of the Eyrien’s entrance.

  Lucivar’s temper was leading, and most people would have scrambled to get out of the way of the storm that was about to shatter everything in its path. That anger didn’t bother him. They had clashed before and would, no doubt, clash again. And the arrogance was simply Lucivar being Lucivar. But the hurt…That was the wound they were going to have to lance.

  “Bastard,” Lucivar said as he began prowling the room.

  “Prick.” He watched Lucivar take in the room, assessing it as a battleground.

  Unless he was completely relaxed and in a familiar place, Lucivar made that same assessment. He didn’t see the furniture for its craftsmanship or the decorations for their aesthetic value. He didn’t look at the space of a room in terms of its comfort or pleasing dimensions. He saw weapons, traps, and defense. The fact that he was making that assessment of the study did not bode well for this discussion.

  “What’s wrong with your back?” Lucivar asked as he prowled past the desk, his gold eyes taking in the details of a potential enemy with one slashing look.

  Should have realized he’d notice, Daemon thought as he braced his hands on the desk. “Jaenelle yelled at the cat.” Even though Jaal was around as much as Kaelas was, everyone understood “the cat” referred only to the big white feline and not the tiger.

  “If you don’t have brains enough to shield, you deserve to get hurt.”

  He felt his temper flex, lightly testing the leash of self-control.

  “I know why we were closed out of the library today.”

  Daemon blinked. Worked to shift his mental balance.

  “Daemonar’s just a little boy,” Lucivar growled. “He doesn’t understand about the thrice-damned precious books.”

  There was the hurt, suddenly bubbling up to the surface. And there was something more under the hurt. Something that worried him.

  “That’s right,” Daemon said carefully. “He’s just a little boy. That library isn’t an appropriate place for him.”

  “Isn’t appropriate for an uneducated Eyrien, isn’t that what you mean?”

  Someone had managed to hit Lucivar in one of the few places where the man was emotionally fragile.

  Daemon’s temper unsheathed its claws. He pushed away from the desk. “Who took a jab at you?”

  “What?” Lucivar stopped prowling. His wings opened slightly for balance. And wariness was now added to the messy stew of emotions that filled the room.

  “Who?” Because whoever had hurt his brother would find herself in a deep grave—and the bitch wouldn’t necessarily be dead when he put her there.

  “I’m not like you! I can’t be like you. Either of you.”

  A mental skid on emotional ice. Trying to restrain a temper that wanted to snap the leash. So this was about him after all.

  The truth of it was like a knife slicing his heart.

  “No, you’re not like me, any more than I can be like you.” He went back to the blackwood desk and leaned against it, clamping his hands on the edge of the wood. “What is this about, Lucivar? You were pissed at me when we were at the Keep; you’re still pissed now. Why?”

  Vulnerable. Fragile. He couldn’t stand seeing Lucivar like this.

  “I don’t have the schooling you do,” Lucivar said, looking at the wall, not meeting his eyes.

  Do I hug him or kill him? “Eyriens don’t value that kind of schooling. I absorb information from books for the pleasure of it, but it’s also another kind of weapon.” He paused to assess the battleground and the man, and then added, “Besides, you don’t like to read.”

  “I can read.” Quick, automatic defense.

  “I know you can,” Daemon said dryly. “From the first time I met you—or the first time I thought I’d met you—I pushed and bullied and bruised your ego until I goaded you into learning. In the same way that you pushed and bullied and bruised my ego until I learned a few basic moves with hand weapons.”

  During the centuries they had been enslaved and had clashed over and over again, they hadn’t understood why they felt compelled to push at each other to share the knowledge and skills they had acquired. Even after they had learned they were brothers, they hadn’t realized that this need to protect each other’s weaker side had begun in a childhood they didn’t remember.

  Lucivar’s shoulders relaxed a little, and the smile was fleeting but genuine.

  “You can read,” Daemon said, “but you don’t enjoy reading. It was always difficult for you. Maybe that’s not just you, Lucivar. The Eyrien race has a strong oral tradition to pass on stories, but they don’t put much value on the written word.”

  “Marian reads a lot,” Lucivar mumbled. “She likes books.”

  “Then maybe it’s cultural. Reading is a female entertainment, something the males can sneer at indulgently.”

  “I don’t sneer,” Lucivar said. Then added under his breath, “Wouldn’t dare.”

  They were circling around the heart of the wound now, so Daemon just leaned back and waited. And felt memories stir awake.

  “Maybe it is a part of being an Eyrien male,” Lucivar said.

  “Like being stronger and having more muscle than females.”

  “Maybe.”

  Lucivar took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Daemon almost sighed with relief. They’d gotten past the worst of this without too many bruises.

  Then Lucivar looked him in the eyes and the words burst out. “I want that for Daemonar. The education. That kind of knowledge. I don’t want him to feel hobbled. I don’t want him to feel like he’s…less.”

  Daemon snapped upright. Then sucked in a breath as his back protested. But his voice held a chill and an edge not quite honed enough to cut. “If that’s your way of saying you feel inferior to me in any way other than that I wear darker Jewels, I will beat you to a bloody pulp.”

  Lucivar smiled that lazy, arrogant smile. “You could try.”

  They were on even ground again. Just that simple.

  Since they were on even ground again, he allowed himself a huff of exasperation. “I’m not blind, Prick. So you don’t read for pleasure. The mountains won’t fall down because of it.”

  “Daemonar was shut out of the library.”

  Daemon threw up his hands. “He’s a little boy. The only value those books have for him right now is they’re things he can throw or tear or chew. Lucivar! His grandfather is the High Lord of Hell and the assistant historian/librarian at the Keep. When that boy reaches an age when he can understand what is held between the covers of those books, do you really think you can stop his grandfather from taking him into that library and showing him all it can offer? For that matter, do you think you can stop me from buying him books and reading him stories and showing him the other side of his education?”

  Lucivar tipped his head in a considering manner. “Other side?”

  “You stand on a mountain and taste the wind. That’s what you’ve called it when you’ve tried to explain it. You taste the wind. And you understand more about what is around you in that moment than I can ever hope to know. I can teach Daemonar about books, but you’re the only one who can teach him that.”

  Lucivar mulled that over and finally nodded. Then he took a step back and turned toward the door. “Why don’t we get that drink?”

  “That bitch is centuries gone. If you let her keep jabbing at you, you deserve to be hurt.”

  Damn. He hadn’t meant to say that. Hadn’t intended to share that memory. But he watched
Lucivar turn. Saw the look in his brother’s eyes that demanded an explanation.

  “You were never good at reading,” Daemon said. No. That wasn’t the place to start. “I don’t have many memories of my childhood before living with Dorothea. Didn’t have any for most of my life. But sometimes now…It’s more the feel of something remembered that opens up the rest.”

  Lucivar said nothing. Just nodded.

  “I remember the feel of Father’s arms around me. I remember the sound of his voice, the rhythm of it when he read a story.” Daemon paused to sort out a jumble of images. “You weren’t good at reading, but you soaked up a story if someone read it to you or told it to you. You remembered all kinds of things, saw all kinds of things in the story.”

  “And probably related everything in terms of a fight.”

  “Of course. You’re Eyrien.” Daemon shrugged. “There was a teacher. I don’t remember her name and can’t recall a face. I think she was tutoring me, but you were there a lot of the time too. She used to jab at you. Not physically, but she made it clear that you were a waste of her time.

  “One day she gave us a story to read. Challenging for me; impossible for you. She did it so you would feel bad. And you were so miserable because you couldn’t read it.

  “You must have gone home until the next lesson, because I don’t remember you being there when Father came to the cottage that evening. Instead of reading the next chapter of the storytime book, I asked him to read the story to me. At first he refused because it was my lesson, and I should read it myself. I pleaded with him, so he gave in and read it to me. But the third time I asked him to read it, he wanted to know why.”

  “Why did you ask him to read it more than once?” Lucivar asked. “You would have gotten the story the first time.”

  Daemon looked at the floor. “I wanted his cadence, his rhythm, his phrasing of the words.” He looked up. “I wanted to read the story to you before the lesson, and I wanted the way he read the story.”