Queen of the Darkness bj-3

by Anne Bishop

  "Like tonight?"

  Lucivar waved his hand dismissively. "No, that was just... just... shit. What can I tell you? He's a little beast."

  They turned a corner and almost ran into a lovely Eyrien woman. She wore a long, practical nightgown and clutched a thick book.

  "Your son," she said, spacing out the words, "is not a beast."

  "Never mind that," Lucivar said, narrowing his eyes. "Marian, why aren't you in bed? You should be resting today."

  Marian let out her breath in an exasperated huff. "I dozed for most of the morning. I played with Daemonar for a little while this afternoon, and then we both took a nap. I just got up to borrow a book. I'm going to get tucked back in before Beale brings up a cup of hot chocolate and a plate of biscuits."

  Lucivar's eyes narrowed a little more. "Didn't you eat today?"

  Daemon stared at Lucivar in amazement. Even an idiot—or an Eyrien male—should be able to tell that this woman was silently sputtering.

  "Uncle Andulvar checked on me to make sure I had eaten a good breakfast. Prothvar brought me a midmorning snack. I ate lunch with Daemonar. Sure that I must be starving, Mephis brought me a midafternoon snack. And your father already inquired about what I ate for dinner. I've been fussed over enough today."

  "I'm not fussing," Lucivar growled—and then added under his breath, "I haven't had a chance to fuss."

  Marian looked pointedly at Daemon. "Shouldn't you be looking after your guests?"

  "He's not a guest. He's my brother."

  Smiling warmly, Marian held out her hand. "You must be Daemon. Oh, I'm so glad you've finally come. Now I have another brother."

  Brother? Taking her hand, Daemon gave Lucivar a quizzical look.

  Running a possessive hand down Marian's waist-length hair, Lucivar said warmly, "Marian does me the honor of being my wife."

  And Daemonar's mother. The floor dropped out from under Daemon and then came up again fast and hard.

  Marian squeezed his hand, her eyes filled with concern. Lucivar's gaze was sharper.

  Emotions collided in him, banging against his fragile sanity. Unable to offer them any reassurances, he took a step back and began, again, the exhausting effort of regaining control of his feelings.

  Perhaps sensing that he needed time, Lucivar tugged at the book Marian held, trying to see the title.

  She clutched it harder and stepped away from him.

  "Is that a sniffle book?" Lucivar asked suspiciously.

  Marian opened and closed her wings with a snap. "A what?"

  "You know. One of those books that women like to read and get all weepy over. The last time you read one of those, you got upset when I came in to find out what was wrong. You threw the book at me."

  Marian's sputtering was no longer silent. "I didn't get upset because of the book. You came storming into the room with weapons drawn and you scared me."

  "You were crying. I thought you were hurt. Look, I just want to know ahead of time if you're going to get weepy over it."

  "When Jaenelle read it, I'll bet you didn't barge in on her when she got weepy."

  Lucivar eyed the book as if it had just grown fangs. "Oh. That book." He curled an arm protectively over his belly. "Actually, I did barge in on her. Her aim was better than yours."

  Marian's growl turned into a laugh. "Poor Lucivar. You try so hard to protect the women in the family, and we don't show our appreciation, do we?"

  Lucivar grinned. "Well, if there are any interesting love scenes in that story, mark the pages and you can appreciate me in a few days."

  Marian glanced at Daemon and blushed.

  Lucivar gently kissed her, then stepped aside to let her pass. "Get into bed now."

  "I'll see you tomorrow, Daemon," Marian said a little shyly.

  "Good night, Lady Marian," Daemon said. It was all he could manage.

  They watched her until she went into her and Lucivar's suite, then Lucivar reached out. Daemon stiffened, rejecting the touch.

  Dropping his hand, Lucivar said, "The High Lord's suite is just down this corridor. He'll want to see you."

  Daemon couldn't move. "I thought you married Jaenelle."

  "Why would you think I married Jaenelle?"

  The surprise in Lucivar's voice woke Daemon's temper. "You were here," he snarled. "Why wouldn't you want to marry her?"

  Lucivar didn't say anything for a long minute. Then, quietly, "That was always your dream, Daemon. Not mine." Turning, he walked down the corridor. "Come on."

  Daemon followed slowly. When Lucivar stopped and knocked on a door, he kept walking, drawn to the strong, dark, feminine psychic scent coming from a room on the opposite side of the corridor.

  "Daemon?"

  Lucivar's voice faded, muted by a powerful tide of emotions.

  Daemon opened a door and walked into a sitting room. One wall had built-in bookshelves above a row of closed, waist-high wooden cabinets. A couch, two triangular side tables, and two chairs formed a bracket of furniture around a long, low table. A pair of sinuous, patinaed lamps sat on the side tables. Next to one chair was a large basket full of skeins of wool and silk and a partially completed piece of needlework. A desk sat in front of the glass doors that led out to the balcony. A tiered stand filled with plants occupied one corner.

  The psychic scent washed over him, through him. Oh, he remembered that dark scent. But there was something different about it now, something delicately, deliriously musky.

  His body tightened, then swelled with male interest before his mind understood the significance of that difference. Then he noticed the sapphire slippers near one chair. A woman's slippers.

  Against all reason, despite all desire, even when he had thought that Lucivar had married her, he hadn't fully absorbed the fact that she was no longer the child he had known. She had grown up.

  The walls of the room faded to gray, then darkened and began to close in, forming a tunnel around him.

  "Daemon."

  He remembered that deep voice, too. He had heard it amused. He had heard it full of rage and fierce power. He had heard it hoarse and exhausted. He had heard it plead with him to reach up, to accept the help and strength being offered.

  Turning slowly, he stared at Saetan. The Prince of the Darkness. The High Lord of Hell. His father.

  Saetan extended his hand, with its slender fingers and long, black-tinted nails. "Daemon... Jaenelle is alive," he said softly.

  The room shrank. The tunnel kept closing. The hand waited for him, offering strength, safety, comfort—all the things he'd rejected when he'd been in the Twisted Kingdom.

  "Daemon."

  He took a step forward. He raised his hand, with its slender fingers and long, black-tinted nails. This time, he feared his own fragility. This time, he would accept the promises Saetan offered.

  He took another step, reaching for the hand that mirrored his own.

  Just before his fingers touched Saetan's, the room disappeared.

  "Keep your head down, boyo. Breathe, slow and easy. That's right."

  Calm strength and warmth flowed from the hand that stroked his head, his neck, his spine.

  The effort made him queasy, but after a moment Daemon got his brain and body working together enough to open his eyes. He stared at the carpet between his feet— earth-brown, with swirls of young green and burnt red. Obviously the carpet couldn't decide if it was representing spring or autumn.

  "Do you want some brandy or a basin?" Lucivar asked.

  Why would he want a basin?

  His stomach jumped. He swallowed carefully. "Brandy," he said, gritting his teeth and hoping it wasn't the wrong choice.

  When Lucivar returned, Daemon got a generously filled snifter shoved into his hand and a basin shoved between his feet.

  The hand rubbing Daemon's spine stopped moving. "Lucivar," Saetan said, his voice equally amused and annoyed.

  "Helene won't be pleased with him if he pukes on the carpet."

  Daemon didn't know the
word Saetan used, but it sounded nasty. It was petty, but he felt childishly pleased that his father had taken his side.

  "Go to Hell," he said, sitting up enough to take a sip of brandy.

  "I'm not the one whose nose was heading for the floor a minute ago," Lucivar growled, rustling his wings.

  "Children," Saetan warned.

  Since his stomach didn't immediately reject the brandy, Daemon took another sip—and finally edged around the questions that needed answers. "She's really alive?"

  "She's really alive," Saetan replied gently.

  "She's lived here since..." He couldn't bring himself to say it.

  "Yes."

  Daemon turned his head, needing to see the answer in Saetan's eyes as well as hear it. "And she healed?"

  "Yes."

  But he saw the flicker of hesitation in those gold eyes.

  Taking another sip of brandy, he slowly realized that, while Jaenelle's dark psychic scent filled the room, it wasn't recent. "Where is she?"

  "She's making her autumn tour of the kindred Territories," Saetan said. "We try not to interrupt her during that time, but I could—"

  "No." Daemon closed his eyes. He needed some time to regain his balance before he met her again. "It can wait." It had already waited for thirteen years. A few more days wouldn't matter.

  Saetan hesitated, then glanced at Lucivar, who nodded. "There is something you need to think about before she returns." He called in a small jeweler's box, then pushed the lid open with his thumb.

  Daemon stared at the faceted ruby in the gold ring. A Consort's ring. He'd seen that ring in the Twisted Kingdom, circling the stem of a crystal chalice that had been shattered and carefully pieced together. Jaenelle's chalice. Jaenelle's promise.

  "That's not for you to offer," Daemon said. He gripped the brandy snifter to keep from reaching for the ring.

  "I'm not the one who's offering it, Prince. As the Steward of the Dak Court, it was given into my keeping."

  Daemon carefully licked his lips. "Has it ever been worn?" Jaenelle was twenty-five now. There was no reason to think—to hope—it had never circled another man's finger.

  Saetan's eyes held a mixture of relief and sadness. "No." He shut the box and held it out.

  Daemon's hand closed over it convulsively.

  "Come on, boyo," Saetan said as he handed the brandy snifter to Lucivar and helped Daemon stand up. "I'll show you to your room. Beale will bring a tray up in a few minutes. Try to eat and get some sleep. We'll talk again in the morning."

  Opening the glass door, Daemon stepped out onto the balcony. The silk robe was too thin and couldn't stop the night air from leaching the warmth he'd gained from a long bath, but he needed to be outside for a moment, needed to listen to the water singing over stone in the natural-looking fountain at the center of the garden below. There were only a couple of rooms surrounding the garden that showed a soft glow of light. Guest rooms? Or did Aaron and Khardeen occupy those rooms?

  Saetan had said no man had worn the Consort's ring, but ...

  Daemon took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She was a Queen, and a Queen was entitled to any pleasure the males in her court could provide.

  And he was here now.

  Shivering, he went into his room, secured the glass door, and drew the curtains. He slipped out of the robe, got into bed, then pulled the covers up over his naked body. Shifting to his side, he stared for several minutes at the jeweler's box he'd set on the bedside table.

  He was here now. The choice was his now.

  He took the Consort's ring out of the box and slipped it on the ring finger of his left hand.

  6 / Kaeleer

  As Surreal placed the last of her toiletries in the bathroom cabinet, she paused, listening. Yes, someone had entered her bedroom. Had the maid returned for another polite verbal struggle? She'd told the woman she didn't need help unpacking—and had wondered about the maid's muttered comment. No question about it, you're a SaDiablo.

  So maybe she'd been a little hasty. After all, she didn't want to have to launder her own clothes for however long she would be there.

  Moving toward the bathroom door, Surreal sent a cautious psychic probe into the bedroom. Her lips curled into a snarl. Not the maid back for another round, but a male making himself comfortable in her room. Then she paused. The psychic scent was definitely male—but there was something about it that was just a little off.

  Calling in her favorite stiletto, she used Craft to place a sight shield around it. With her arms down and her right hand curled loosely around the hilt, no one would suspect she had a weapon ready—unless they knew she was an assassin. More than likely, it was a male who had heard of her former profession and figured she'd be delighted to accommodate him—like those balless pricks at the service fair who kept pushing her to sign a contract to serve in an "aristo" Red Moon house.

  Well, if this male was expecting a jolly, she would just inform him that she would have to talk to the Steward first about compensation. Unless it was the Steward. Did he really expect her to buy her way out of a contract she hadn't wanted to sign in the first place?

  With her temper simmering, Surreal strode into the bedroom—and stopped short, not sure if she wanted to yell or laugh.

  A large gray dog had his head buried in her open trunk. The tip of his tail wagged like a brisk metronome as he sniffed her clothes.

  "Find anything interesting?" Surreal asked.

  The dog leaped away from the trunk, heading for the door. Then he stopped, a nervous quiver running through his body as his brown eyes stared at her. His tail gave a couple of hopeful tock-tocks before it curled between his legs.

  Surreal vanished the stiletto. Keeping one eye on the dog, she checked the trunk. If he'd done anything disgusting on her clothes... Seeing that he hadn't done more than sniff, she relaxed and turned to face him.

  "You're big," she said pleasantly. "Are you allowed inside?"

  "Rrrf."

  "You're right. Considering the size of this place, that was a silly question." She held out her hand in a loose fist.

  Accepting the invitation, he eagerly sniffed her hand, sniffed her feet, sniffed her knees, sniffed...

  "Get your nose out of my crotch," Surreal growled.

  He took two steps back and sneezed.

  "Well, that's your opinion."

  His mouth opened in a doggy grin. "Rrrf."

  Laughing, Surreal put her clothes away in the tall wardrobe and mirrored dresser. After hanging the last piece, she closed the trunk.

  Seeing that he had her attention again, the dog sat down and offered a paw.

  Well, he seemed friendly.

  After shaking his paw, she ran her hands through his fur, scratched behind his ears, and rubbed his head until his eyes started to blissfully close. "You're a pretty boy, aren't you? A big furry boy."

  He gave her chin two enthusiastic, if sloppy, kisses.

  Surreal straightened up and stretched. "I have to go now, boyo. Somewhere in this place is my dinner, and I intend to find it."

  "Rrrf." The dog bounded to the door, his tail wagging.

  She eyed him. "Well, I suppose you would know where to find the food. Just let me get ready, then we'll go hunting the elusive dinner."

  "Rrrf."

  Hell's fire, Surreal thought as she washed her hands and brushed her hair. She must be more tired than she realized if she was imagining tonal qualities in the dog's sounds that made it seem like he was really answering her. And she would have sworn that last "Rrrf" was full of amusement. Just as she would have sworn that someone kept trying to reach her on a psychic communication thread and that she was the one who kept fumbling the link.

  The dog's mood had changed by the time she came back. When she opened the bedroom door, he gave her a sad look, then slunk into the corridor.

  Prince Aaron leaned against the opposite wall.

  He was a handsome man with black hair, gray eyes, and a height and build women would find appealing
. Standing next to Sadi he would come in a poor second—well, so would any other man—but she didn't think he'd ever lacked invitations to the bed.

  Maybe that explained the wariness under the arrogant confidence.

  "Since you don't know your way around yet, I stopped by to escort you and Lady Benedict to the dining room," Aaron said, looking like he was fighting hard not to smile. "But I see you already have an escort."

  The dog's ears pricked up. The tail went tock-tock.

  The corridor filled with annoying male undercurrents. Surreal briefly considered giving one of them a hard smack just to break up whatever was going on, but losing her escorts would mean trying to find the dining room on her own.

  Fortunately, Wilhelmina Benedict chose that moment to leave her room, which was next to Surreal's. After Aaron explained about being their escort, he offered each woman an arm, and the three of them, with the dog trailing close behind, began the long walk through the Hall.

  "The servants must be exhausted by the end of the day," Surreal said as they turned into another corridor.

  "Not really," Aaron replied. "The staff works on a rotation and are assigned to a wing of the Hall. That way everyone gets to work in the family wing and the wings where the court resides when it's here."

  "You mean I'm going to have the same argument with another maid?" Surreal almost wailed.

  Aaron shot her an amused look. "You mean you drew your own bath?"

  "I didn't bother to bathe," Surreal snapped. "Sit upwind."

  Smart-ass.

  He didn't have to say it out loud. His expression was sufficient.

  Surreal glanced back at her furry escort. Well, animals should be a safe subject for small talk. "He is allowed inside, isn't he?"

  "Oh, yes," Aaron said. "Although, I was surprised to see him. The pack tends to stay in the north woods when there are strangers here."

  "The pack? What kind of dog is he?"

  "He's not a dog. He's a wolf. And he's kindred."

  Wilhelmina jumped and gave the wolf a frightened look. "But... aren't wolves wild animals?"

  "He's also a Warlord," Aaron said, ignoring Wilhelmina's question.