by Anne Bishop
Now Lucivar looked away.
“Father would let us get away with little fibs, but he wouldn’t let us lie to him,” Daemon said. “And he always knew. So I had to tell him why I needed to know the story so well. And I told him about the teacher being mean to you because you were Eyrien and you didn’t read as well as I did. He didn’t say anything.”
Lucivar swore softly. “He’s at his scariest when he doesn’t say anything.”
Daemon nodded. “He read the story over and over, then had me read it, working with me until I was satisfied.”
“I think I remember this part.” Lucivar sounded a little uncomfortable. He stared at nothing. “You grabbed me before the lesson and read me the story. She was pissed because I could answer her questions about what the story was about.”
“He let her come back that last time because we were prepared to meet her on that battleground. But the next lesson, we had a different teacher.”
They stared at each other. Prince of the Darkness. High Lord of Hell. They knew enough about the man now that neither wanted to speculate, even between themselves, what had happened to the witch who had been foolish enough to hurt one of Saetan’s children.
“How about that drink, Bastard? Then you can tell me all about this spooky house.”
Daemon pushed away from the desk to join Lucivar at the door. “Didn’t Marian say anything?”
“Marian was too riled about cobwebs to have any kind of discussion. Hell’s fire. The next time she gets that worked up about something, I’m dragging you over to the eyrie to deal with her.”
“Drag Falonar,” Daemon replied. “He still deserves to sweat a bit for bruising Surreal’s heart.”
“Nah. Marian would probably rein it in and be polite, since he isn’t family.” Lucivar gave Daemon a wicked smile. “I’ll just make the son of a whoring bitch look after Daemonar for an afternoon.”
A brush of bodies, shoulder to shoulder.
“You have a mean streak, brother,” Daemon said as he opened the door. “I like it.”
Lucivar slipped into bed and cuddled up against Marian, more relaxed than he’d been all day. He wasn’t drunk. Far from it. But he was hoping she wasn’t in the mood for more than a cuddle.
Marian stirred. Let out a sleepy sigh. “You’re home.”
He brushed his lips over her cheek. “Yeah. It’s late, sweetheart. Go to sleep.”
She shifted a little, snuggling closer. “Your father came by not long after you left.”
So much for contentment. “Why?”
“I think he wanted to talk to you, but he wasn’t surprised that you’d gone to the Hall to see Daemon.”
Should he have expected Saetan to show up? Maybe. But there were things he could say to a brother he’d known for centuries that he couldn’t say to a father he’d known only for the past nine years.
“He spent the evening reading stories to Daemonar. He’s got a wonderful voice for it. I think they read almost every storybook we own. Daemonar fell asleep halfway through the last one.”
Lucivar smiled. “Gave you a bit of a rest, then.”
A change in her breathing, in her body going from sleep relaxed to aware.
“Before he left, he said something interesting.”
“He says interesting things all the time.”
No amusement. Her body was telling him he didn’t have to be concerned about her temper, but he wished there were a little more light in the room so he could see her face.
“He said children aren’t the only ones who like to hear a story.”
He tensed. Couldn’t stop his body’s response to the words. His father might say interesting things, but sometimes the man talked too damn much.
“No one valued reading in my family,” Marian said. “Even when I asked for a book as a gift, it was viewed as wasted coin. So I was relieved that you were indulgent about my buying books and spending time in the evenings reading.”
“I’m not indulgent,” he growled. Envious sometimes because she got so much pleasure from blots of ink on a page while he struggled to read what he had to, but not indulgent. “Your coins, your time. You can do what you please with both.”
“I didn’t realize you would enjoy sharing those stories.”
Embarrassment. A coating of shame. And a healthy sense of survival because he knew if Daemon and Saetan were aware of those feelings—or more aware than they already were—they would both pound on him.
“He suggested having a family story night once a week. Just us—you, me, Jaenelle, Daemon, and him. Surreal, too, if she’s interested.”
He shifted. All right. He squirmed. “You don’t have to do this. You would have read the book. All of you would have read it.”
“Not if we picked a new story. And maybe in the winter, when it’s too cold to do much, maybe I could share some stories with you that I enjoyed. But not the romances. I couldn’t read the…”
“The…?”
“I couldn’t read those parts out loud.”
“Maybe I could read those parts for myself.” At least he’d have incentive.
“Don’t get ideas. It’s late.”
“Yes, Lady,” he replied, chuckling.
He tucked them in and curled himself protectively around her.
“Lucivar?”
“Hmm?”
“I’d like to do that story night. It would be fun.”
“I’ll talk to Daemon about it.” Who would pounce on the idea, so the decision was already made.
As he drifted off to sleep, he thought about his father coming here to talk with him, to read to Daemonar.
No, he hadn’t been reunited with Saetan for that many years, but the man did understand his children.
FIVE
Sometimes the only way to deal with a Warlord Prince was not to let him in the door.
Surreal was so pleased with that solution, she repeated it to herself two more times while waiting for Helton, the town house butler, to open the front door.
“Now,” she said, in a tone that held both warning and forgiveness. The warning was for the attempt to delay her departure until Rainier arrived. The forgiveness was because Helton wasn’t half as scary as Beale, the butler at SaDiablo Hall, and she didn’t want the man to resign because he felt unable to deal with her. He’d been fine serving the rest of the SaDiablo family, including the ones who had been demon-dead, but he seemed to find her more of a challenge.
She wasn’t sure if that was flattering or frightening.
Helton hesitated a moment longer, then opened the door. Slowly.
Running out of patience, she slipped through the meager opening and stepped outside just as Rainier bounded up the town house’s steps. When he saw her blocking his entry, he teetered on the edge of a step—as much as Rainier ever teetered—then settled one step below and gave her a look that blended a hopeful-puppy expression with the Warlord Prince I-am-a-law-unto-myself attitude. The attitude came naturally to that caste of male. She suspected Rainier, along with the rest of the boyos, had learned the hopeful-puppy expression by studying his kindred brothers. It was damn hard to slap at any male when he had that look on his face. Even if he wasn’t furry.
“We’re going out,” Surreal said pleasantly.
“No, we are not,” Rainier replied just as pleasantly.
She saw that little extra something in his eyes now, that subtle difference in the way he held himself.
Jaenelle had told her once, When a male sets his heels down with the intention of standing between you and whatever he’s decided isn’t good for you, he will remain pleasant and he’ll sound agreeable—but he won’t budge.
Letting out a huge sigh, Surreal stepped to the side, giving Rainier clear access to the door. He smiled at her as he came up the last steps and reached for the door. She smiled at him—and raced down the steps.
She got to the house next door before he caught up to her.
“Surreal.”
She clenched her hands
and clenched her teeth. He had a shield fanning out on either side of him, effectively blocking the whole sidewalk. As long as he stayed put, she could dodge around the shield by going into the street. Since he wasn’t likely to stay put, the only way to get past him would be to knock him down—which had a lot of appeal at the moment. Unless Rainier reported the incident to any male in her family.
Forcing herself to relax, she said, “I’m going out.” She didn’t give him the chance to snarl about it. “It’s the fourth day, Prince. I can wear my Birthright Green without discomfort. I could wear the Gray if I needed to.”
“You still—” He bit off the words. Hopefully that was all he bit off.
When they were in public, Blood males rarely admitted to having the ability to pick up something in a witch’s psychic scent or physical scent that indicated her moontime. They considered it discourteous to remind a woman that she was vulnerable because she couldn’t use her own power to defend herself. The Blood didn’t talk about it very much, but that ability was silently acknowledged by everyone because Warlord Princes stood a heartbeat away from the killing edge during the vulnerable days of any witch to whom they had given their loyalty, and they were more inclined to kill first and ask questions later.
Still, there were limits to indulging the male temper.
“I had considered making a sign that said ‘I have a sharp knife and a large Warlord Prince’ and floating it over my head, but I don’t want to tell anyone about the knife until after I use it, and anyone dumb enough not to notice you deserves to get knocked into a wall.”
A twitch of his lips. A shift toward humor instead of temper.
“Where are we going?” Rainier asked.
Ah. Got him. “Bookshop. It’s fun reading that Jarvis Jenkell book together, but I wanted something to read at other times.”
“Well, that’s convenient. I was asked to pick up some books.”
Surreal hooked her long black hair behind one ear and narrowed her gold-green eyes. “You were going to suggest walking to the bookshop, weren’t you?”
“Was I?”
Bastard. Prick. Arrogant, insufferable Warlord Prince.
When she moved forward, he dropped the shield and pivoted in a graceful dancer’s move to fall into step beside her. She took a couple of steps, then grabbed his arm to stop him as she swung around to put herself on his left, which was the subordinate position.
“Surreal.”
She was just a witch and he was a Warlord Prince, but her Jewels outranked his, so he wasn’t comfortable standing in the dominant position.
Good. He deserved to squirm a little.
“It rained last night,” she said. “Puddles. Carriages. Splashing. Whether you create a shield or decide to take your chances, you being on the street side means I won’t get splashed.”
A male caught between Protocol and the desire to protect. He didn’t like it, but he didn’t argue about it and he didn’t try to switch positions.
They walked in silence for a couple of blocks. Then Rainier said, “Have you heard from your cousins lately?”
“No.” Thank the Darkness.
“Then you haven’t heard about the spooky house?”
“Spooky house? What’s a spooky house?”
Rainier just smiled.
It took several blocks and a few rash promises she shouldn’t have made before Rainier told her about Jaenelle’s little project.
“You’re not serious,” Surreal said as Rainier opened the bookshop’s door for her. “You made this up.”
He shook his head.
She stepped into the shop, then waited for her eyes to adjust to the dimmer light. “Does Daemon know about this?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lucivar? Uncle Saetan?”
“I would think so.”
“Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.”
“That seems to be the general reaction.”
Surreal sniffed. She hadn’t wanted Daemon or Lucivar showing up to fuss over her, but one of them could have stopped by to tell her about the spooky house. After all, she was family.
And that little thought made her scowl at Rainier. “When did you hear about this?”
“I was at the Hall early this morning.”
Why?
Her expression must have conveyed the question, because he gave her a puzzled look. “I stop in a couple of times a week. I do work for Prince Sadi, remember?”
She remembered. Even though she’d met Rainier before he’d signed a contract with Daemon, she had to consider what kind of task a male cousin might give an unattached Warlord Prince.
“Am I a friend or an assignment, Prince Rainier?”
She saw the insult in his eyes, saw the way his jaw tensed with the effort to keep his anger leashed.
“You’re a friend,” he snapped. “At least, I thought we were friends. Picking up the books is an assignment.”
“I’m sorry.” And she was. “I just…” Oh, that particular wound was still more raw than she wanted to admit.
Rainier’s look was too sharp, too understanding. “You just wanted to spend time with someone who liked you for who you are and didn’t see you as a way to advance his standing in a court?”
A light touch of his hand on her elbow, shifting them both away from the door as a dapper-looking man entered the shop.
“I’ve had sex with a lot of men, but Falonar was my first lover. It felt different, being with a man when it wasn’t business of one kind or another. Maybe if we’d had a romp during the days after we arrived at the Hall and then had gone our separate ways—Falonar to Ebon Rih and me somewhere else—it might have been an easy good-bye. You know. ‘Thanks for the hot ride in bed’ sort of thing. But I ended up going to Ebon Rih too, and somewhere along the way, enjoying a hot ride turned into something else. At least, I thought it had. But toward the end, instead of having a lover, I felt like I was being serviced by someone who wasn’t enthusiastic about the work.” That wasn’t the only bone still stuck in her throat where Prince Falonar was concerned, but that was all she was willing to share at the moment.
Rainier smiled wryly. “Your introduction to the courts in Kaeleer was the Dark Court. The men who served in Jaenelle’s First Circle were the exceptions, Surreal, not the rule. The Consort of a Territory Queen is one of the three most influential men in that Territory. A man usually isn’t offered that ring until he has credentials.”
“So he sleeps his way into a position of power?”
“He doesn’t do much sleeping in his Lady’s bed, but, essentially, yes. Usually there is attraction, basic lust on both sides. Most often there is affection. Sometimes even love. And sometimes there is lust on the Lady’s side and ambition on his—and nothing more.”
She moved toward the shelves of books, wanting to be farther away from the counter and the other customers. “It was like that in Terreille, but I hadn’t thought it was that way in Kaeleer.” And Falonar had come from Askavi in the Realm of Terreille. Maybe he’d seen servicing her as a way of solidifying his position as Lucivar’s second-in-command.
What bothered her more? That Falonar’s interest in her could have been a combination of lust and a desire to have a connection with the witches who ruled Kaeleer, or that his interest in his current lover had nothing to do with ambition and everything to do with heart?
Let it go. He wasn’t the right man for you anyway.
“What I’m trying to say is, I will stand as an official escort for you whenever you need one—or whenever it is required that you have one,” Rainier said. “But I’m not here for the sake of ambition. I’m here because I like you. All right?”
She nodded, then puffed out a breath. “I guess I’m just being moody. Or bitchy.”
A warm smile now. “I hadn’t noticed.”
He was teasing her, poking fun of her usual sharp tongue. Something a friend would do. Something a man wouldn’t do unless he was sure the teasing would be taken as inten
ded.
Cheered by the thought, she moved toward the back shelves. The dapper-looking man who had come in while she and Rainier were talking saw her coming toward him, flushed as if he’d been caught doing something dirty, and ducked out of sight.
Her cheerful mood vanished as she stared at the spot where the man had been. Something about him. Something not quite right. Like he’d dressed very carefully for an afternoon out, but it was a laboriously constructed costume, and he had missed some small detail that skewed everything else just enough to scratch her temper. Added to that was the suspicion that he’d been trying to eavesdrop on a conversation and hadn’t been happy when she’d caught him at it.
She considered sending Rainier down another aisle and boxing the man between the two of them, but she had seen no Jewel, didn’t get any sense of threat or power. In fact, she got so little sense of him, she wasn’t even sure he was Blood. Was she going to scare the shit out of a man and spoil his pleasant afternoon of browsing in the bookshop just because she didn’t like something about the way he dressed?
Since she couldn’t say with certainty that her reaction wasn’t the result of an edginess caused by talking about Falonar, she turned to Rainier and said, “Help me find the first Jarvis Jenkell story about the Blood. And while we’re doing that, you can tell me again about this spooky house.”
Late that evening, Daemon sprawled across the big bed, naked, sated, and blissfully content, his head pillowed in Jaenelle’s lap. They had bathed after a hungry session of lovemaking, but he still caught a light whiff of their mingled scents beneath the clean smell of soap.
So tempting to turn his head and press a kiss on that triangle between her thighs. But a kiss through her nightgown would make him want to push up the fabric in order to taste skin, and that kind of kiss would lead to other kinds of kisses.
He’d already indulged himself with those other kinds of kisses.
Besides, she was reading a book and petting him, her fingers drifting through his hair, over his shoulders and back. He could float on that sensation, and he did, beginning to settle into sleep when… tap. tap tap. tap. tap tap. Her finger against his shoulder.
