The Invisible Ring bj-4

by Anne Bishop

  Daemon bolted for the bathroom.

  Listening to the muffled laughter behind the closed door, Jared considered switching the mugs but decided he wasn’t up for whatever Daemon’s response might be after choking on the first mouthful.

  Jared’s mug vanished.

  Daemon returned a couple of minutes later, placed the cleaned mug in front of Jared, sank into his chair, and grinned wickedly.

  Jared fixed another mug of coffee. “This is fine.”

  “I’m so pleased.”

  Jared almost gave in to the urge to give Daemon one hard kick. “They’re rather opposing professions,” he said, his thoughts circling back to the woman who, it was said, had exotic looks and enough bedroom skills to melt a man’s bones.

  “Not really.” Daemon sat up, gave Jared a sharp look, and then drank his coffee. “Especially when one profession is part of the tools used for the other.”

  Jared choked.

  “Did I just ruin a long-held fantasy?” Daemon asked innocently.

  “Of course not.”

  “She doesn’t kill every male she beds.”

  “Wouldn’t matter if she did.”

  “Your Thera would like her.”

  Mother Night, banish the thought. “She’s not my Thera.”

  “Blaed’s Thera, then.”

  “Haven’t you got the possessive turned around? Shouldn’t you say Thera’s Blaed?” He thought about that for a second, then set his mug down with a thump.

  “Thera’s blade.” Looking too much like a cat that has one paw firmly on the mouse’s tail, Daemon poured more coffee. “Which is something you shouldn’t forget, Warlord.”

  The dinner that had tasted good a few minutes ago swam greasily in Jared’s stomach. “You think—”

  Daemon made an exasperated sound. “If I didn’t know you’re too tired to think straight, I’d knock some sense into you. Listen, and listen well. Blaed’s a good man and a good Warlord Prince. In a few years, when he matures, he’ll be an even better one—and a dangerous one. From what you’ve said, Thera’s a strong-willed young woman who’s been on a battleground for far too long. A Green-Jeweled Black Widow with that kind of fire in her isn’t the kind of witch Dorothea would allow to stay whole no matter what sort of games were being played. Because that kind of witch is a serious rival.”

  Jared sipped his coffee. “Thayne?”

  “Why? Because he protected some innocent, terrified animals that were caught in a battle? Because, no matter how he feels about them, he might have realized how much harder the rest of the journey would be without them, especially if any of you were injured?”

  “I hadn’t thought of it that way.” And now, remembering Thayne’s burned face, he wished he had thought of it. He rubbed his eyes, fighting to stay awake. “Who, then?”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Daemon said gently. “You’re too deep into the game, Jared. Your presence—and Blaed’s and Thera’s—combined with Lia’s wonderfully erratic actions, tangled up what was probably supposed to be a quick kill. Besides, how can a bargain to kill the Gray Lady be fulfilled if she isn’t there?”

  “We still need to know who the enemy is,” Jared insisted.

  “You do,” Daemon countered. “Dorothea SaDiablo— and her Master of the Guard. The rest doesn’t matter anymore.” He stood up and stretched the muscles in his back. “You can stay here tomorrow. The owner and I have an understanding.”

  Jared shook his head. “If anyone puts together the Shalador Warlord who was in that fight and the one staying here . . .”

  “No one will put it together. No one will remember seeing a Shalador Warlord walk into the tavern room—at least, no one will remember until he’s been away from this place for a day.”

  Even dulled by fatigue, Jared understood. Daemon had cast a spell around this place, a kind of psychic fog that hid one specific memory.

  Daemon rolled down his sleeves, fastened the ruby cuff links, and shrugged into his black jacket. “I have to return to the court. I’ll be leaving before dawn. Stay in the room. Get some rest. The owner or his wife will make sure you have everything you need. I’ve left a change of clothes for you. We’re about the same size, so they should fit well enough. Something will be found for Lia tomorrow.”

  “Thank you. For everything.”

  Daemon slipped his hands into his trouser pockets. “Get some sleep. In the bed. A warm body next to her will be more comforting—for both of you—than a pile of blankets.”

  “If she snarls about it, I’ll blame you.” If she was still alive to snarl.

  Daemon smiled gently. “Fair enough.” As he opened the door, he looked back at Jared. “By the way, you wear the Silver.”

  Jared wasn’t sure how long he stared at the closed door. By the time he got his legs to move and got the door open, the hallway was empty. No point searching. He could spend the rest of the night turning this place inside out with Daemon, fully shielded, standing nearby the whole time, and he’d never know.

  After Red-locking the door, Jared pulled off the dressing robe and slipped cautiously into the bed. He felt Lia shivering despite the warming spells on the blankets. He settled beside her, tucked the covers around them, and slid his arm around her waist. Slowly her chilled skin warmed. She made a sleepy, contented sound.

  Jared dimmed the candle-lights in the room. But sleep didn’t come for a while.

  Maybe being able to sense the Invisible Ring depended on whether a man wore a Jewel lighter or darker than the Gray since Grizelle had probably created it. He still couldn’t sense it, but Daemon had been able to tell which kind he wore. And Daemon wouldn’t lie to him. Not about something like that.

  He wore the Invisible Ring. He wore the Silver.

  Whatever that meant.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Krelis stared at the male organs neatly arranged on a thick pad of blood-soaked cloth. There were wounds on all of them, which meant the agony had begun long before the barber had used the knife.

  His vision grayed. He swallowed hard against the sickness clogging his throat.

  Gliding behind him, Dorothea brushed the back of his neck with the tip of a large, white feather, and purred, “Recognize anyone?”

  Krelis squeezed his eyes shut. Sweet Darkness, he hoped those things had belonged to landens or slaves. Something expendable. Something that required no thoughts, no feelings.

  “I want you to choose five guards, men you value,” Dorothea said. “I understand one of your cousins recently became one of my guards.”

  Krelis took a few steps away from the table. “Yes, Priestess. A distant cousin from the distaff side of the family.”

  “He’ll be one of the five.”

  “For a special assignment?” Krelis asked. His cousin was only Sixth Circle. Being noticed so quickly would please the family.

  “In a manner of speaking. You’ll also include the young guard you’ve been personally training as well.”

  “As you wish, Priestess.” Krelis narrowed his eyes, trying to remember who was immediately available in the First Circle who could balance the two less-experienced men. “What will be required of them?”

  “Very little.” Dorothea brushed her chin with the white feather and smiled malevolently. “You’ve been something of a disappointment, Lord Krelis. Difficulties with the Gray Lady were one thing. But having this little bitch elude you . . .” She shook her head. “It troubles me. It makes me wonder if your loyalty is as strong as it should be. It makes me wonder if I made an error in my choice of Master of the Guard.”

  Krelis felt light-headed. “Priestess . . .”

  “So I’ve decided to give you a bit more incentive.” As she moved toward him, Krelis wondered how he’d ever mistaken that predatory walk for something enticing, inviting.

  “Do you remember your predecessor, Lord Krelis?” Dorothea purred. “You’re going to bring those five men to me. And every day that little bitch runs free, one of those men will pay for your failure
.” Her eyes slid to the blood-soaked cloth. “Since you’re the one selecting them for this, the last four, at least, will understand who’s responsible for their suffering. You may choose whether your cousin or your protégé is the last. I hope you find her before then, Krelis. I truly do.” She waved the feather, tickling his lips. “I expect them here within the hour. Do you understand?”

  Krelis wanted to lick his dry lips, but he was terrified his tongue might touch that feather. Since there was no chance of handing over the little bitch-Queen tomorrow, he knew how that feather would soon be used. “I understand, Priestess,” he choked. “I understand.”

  How could it have gone so wrong? Krelis wondered a couple of hours later as he leaned back in his chair, a half-full bottle of brandy cradled to his chest. He’d anticipated so much, had taken such care.

  How could it have gone so wrong?

  With the bounty he’d offered, every marauder band in that part of the Realm was hunting her, and they’dstill found nothing but cold trails and the buttons his pet had left.

  And his pet hadn’t even left those lately.

  His fault for believing the bastard hadn’t had something vital snipped out of him when the Ring of Obedience had been placed around his cock. The fear of the pain changed most of them. They never again felt the arrogant assurance that honor and Protocol would protect them. Warlord Princes became savage over time. Warlords shriveled up inside.

  But his pet hadn’t been a slave that long, only long enough to feel desperate, and bitter enough about the betrayal that had sent him into slavery that the offer of service without a Ring sounded sweet enough to rape honor and justify betrayal. He’d been intelligent enough to realize the quality of his life would rest on Hayll’s whims, and doing such an extensive favor for the High Priestess would almost guarantee that he’d never feel the pain of the lash or the agony of the Ring again.

  Almost.

  Krelis laughed bitterly. The bastard had believed that by killing the one Queen who had successfully stood against Dorothea over these past decades, he’d earn a promise of safety.

  Except there was no promise. And there was no safety. Krelis had finally understood that when he watched five pairs of eyes fill with terror when he left them in that barren room.

  He’d always been ambitious. He’d thought it was because he wanted the kind of power that could only be attained by serving in the First Circle of a strong court. Now he knew it was because he’d wanted to be safe. And he was safe. Safe from the minor Queens who didn’t believe a strong male could be trusted at all unless he was Ringed. Safe from the petty abuse inflicted on males by any witch who wore a darker Jewel. Safe from torments designed to soothe a bitch’s ego.

  Safe from everything except Dorothea.

  Which meant he wasn’t safe at all.

  But she was all he had now. He’d realized that, too, when he’d seen how carefully the guards who were posted outside that barren room had shuttered their expressions, closing him out. He’d betrayed the unspoken understanding that the Master would protect his men from the whims of the witches in the court. They would obey him to escape punishment, but they would never respect him.

  With one order, Dorothea had isolated him from everyone but her First Circle—and he’d even be isolated from them if he didn’t succeed brilliantly enough to erase his failure up to this point. If his cousin was subjected to that gruesome maiming, his family would tolerate his presence when he joined them but would never welcome him. His dream of a pretty, placid, broodmare wife would wither and die with his unborn children. He’d be left mounting the whores who worked in the Red Moon houses.

  Krelis raised the bottle of brandy to his lips and kept swallowing until he needed to breathe.

  He’d find the little bitch before his cousin felt Dorothea’s knife.

  And his pet would learn the price of failure.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Would you like to play chess?” Jared asked as he set up the game board the innkeeper had provided and tried—hard—not to throw a fine fit of male hysterics. That’s what Lia had called his reaction when her legs had buckled while she’d been pacing the room earlier in the day. Working the stiffness out of them, she’d said. Scaring the shit out of him, he’d shouted.

  Then his wobbly-legged little Queen had threatened to dump the hot soup that had been part of the midday meal into his lap if he didn’t stop pestering her to take a nap.

  He didn’t pester. He never pestered. He was concerned. Couldn’t she tell the difference?

  “One game,” Jared coaxed, grinding his teeth so he wouldn’t yell at her to sit down. “Just to pass the time.”

  Looking much too fragile and very young in the too-large sweater and snug trousers that had belonged to one of the innkeeper’s sons, Lia crossed her arms and gave Jared a stony stare that would have made him nervous if it hadn’t been accompanied by a hint of a pout. “You snarled the last time we played.”

  Jared placed one hand over his heart. “I promise not to snarl.” About the game, anyway. “Of course, if you don’t want to play, we could just turn in for the night.”

  She snarled at him.

  “She who snarls shouldn’t comment on someone else’s little grumbles,” Jared said virtuously.

  Her hands balled into fists.

  Jared watched her, fighting against the desire to provoke her a little more. In her weakened condition, if she threw a punch at him, she’d probably end up on the floor and would be even madder when he had to help her up.

  After he’d finished setting up his red pieces to his satisfaction, Jared reached for the black pieces.

  “Mine!” Lia said, sitting down too abruptly for the movement to have been completely intended.

  While she set up her pieces, Jared poured a glass of fruit juice for her and a glass of wine for himself.

  He’d wrapped himself around her last night, more out of a need to feel each reassuring breath she took than any belief that his presence would help her. This morning, he’d been rudely awakened when her elbow jabbed his belly and she started swearing to do vile things to his most valued body parts if he didn’t let go. When his still-sleepy brain had finally understood the reason for the desperation that laced her curses, he’d made her madder by carrying her into the bathroom.

  He’d chuckled at her muttering when he tucked her back into bed and climbed in with her, so pleased to have her alive and well enough to be angry that he never gave a thought to how she might react to having a naked male beside her. He’d cuddled her for an hour.

  And he’d held her and cried with her when she asked about Tomas.

  He’d tried to spoon-feed her at breakfast.

  He’d tried to give her a bath.

  He’d mentioned taking a nap every hour or so, politely pointing out that she’d been very ill the night before and needed a lot of rest.

  So maybe he’d fussed a bit too much, but he was entitled to fuss. She’d scared him. She’d more than scared him.

  But he had not pestered.

  “You’re muttering already,” Lia grumbled, watching him through narrowed eyes. She tossed her hair over her shoulders and picked up the glass of fruit juice.

  Her hair was like a soft, dark cloud, Jared thought, sipping his wine. She’d let him brush it after her bath—had to let him brush it because, after a few strokes, her arms had felt too heavy to lift. Daemon had drawn most of the venom out of her, but her body still felt the deep fatigue of fighting to survive on top of the demands she’d made of it during the ambush. While he’d brushed her hair, he’d woven a soothing spell around her that Daemon had taught him during the year they’d been in the same court. It had put her to sleep for a couple of hours.

  Remembering that, he grinned.

  “What?” Lia said. “Did you put something in the fruit juice?”

  “Of course not,” Jared huffed. “Roll the dice. Let’s play.”

  She rolled a five for a Summer-sky Queen. He rolled a three for a
Tiger Eye. Giving her a sassy grin, he opened by moving one of his Black Widows.

  Several moves later, he began to worry about the change in her game. Her Queen remained in the background while her stronger pieces—especially the Black Widows and Warlord Princes—were doing most of the defending, supporting the weaker pieces who only captured one of his when there was no possibility of an exchange. Again and again, she retreated, giving up more ground and growing more timid each time he captured one of her pieces.

  And all the while, her Queen did nothing.

  Her brash courage might have enraged him when the instincts bred into Blood males howled to defend the female, but seeing her act timid and uncertain produced a deeper anger—and a deeper kind of fear.

  Losing Tomas had produced an emotional wound that would heal in time, but she’d carry the scar of it the rest of her life. And there would be more scars. Dena Nehele’s continued freedom would be paid for in blood.

  Her mind knew it, but her heart couldn’t accept it yet.

  And he couldn’t allow her the luxury of thinking retreat would keep her people safe.

  He moved one of his Warlords to threaten a Blood male pawn. If she moved her Queen to challenge, he’d let the pawn go. If she didn’t . . .

  It felt like half the night had passed before she hesitantly moved her Queen. Her hand trembled a little, and her face lost the little color she’d gained throughout the day.

  Wanting to distract her and give himself time to choose a move that would seem a logical alternative to capturing the pawn, he said, “Does your grandmother really look that intimidating?”

  Lia had just taken a sip of juice when he asked the question. She clamped a hand over her mouth until she managed to swallow. “Gran?” she finally gasped. Then she started laughing.

  Jared moved a Priestess nearer to the protection of his Sanctuary.

  “Hey!” Lia huffed, sitting forward. “No fair moving a piece when I’m too teary-eyed to see you do it.” She frowned when she figured out his move.

  Before she could comment, he gave her another nudge. “Is she?”