The Queen's Bargain Page 30

  Witch pointed to the smallest ring. “Like other traits that are part of a Warlord Prince’s nature, the sexual heat begins to manifest at puberty.”

  Oh, Hell’s fire. They would have to deal with Daemonar when the boy reached that age.

  “When a Warlord Prince reaches the age when he makes the Offering to the Darkness and comes into his mature power, the sexual heat becomes more potent.” She pointed to the second ring, then went on to the third. “And then he reaches physical maturity, a man entering his prime.”

  “Which is where I was when we were married. Which is where I am now.”

  “Not quite.” She tapped the fourth ring. “A century ago, you were just coming into your prime. Your sexual heat hadn’t reached its peak yet. Now you are solidly in your prime, and I’m guessing the last phase of sexual heat happened right around the night you had invited Surreal to play, and by the following morning, it had settled into where it will be until you reach your autumn years, when it starts to decline.”

  Horrified by the thought, he shook his head. “It can’t stay at this level.”

  “It can—and will. But you’ll adjust, and so will the people around you.”

  “Jaenelle, no. You don’t know the misery this has already caused.”

  “Daemon,” she said gently. “This is part of who you are.”

  “How am I supposed to cope with that?” Was Lucivar going through this too?

  “For one thing, you’re going to stop hurting yourself. For another, you’re going to use that brilliant mind to recognize that every Warlord Prince goes through this. You’ve seen men go through this. Clearly it didn’t make much of an impression.”

  “I would have noticed.”

  “Really? Chaosti. Rainier. Aaron. Elan. You knew every one of them before he reached his prime and went through this last phase of the sexual heat. Every one of them, Daemon. You knew their wives or, in Rainier’s case, a woman he lived with for decades. The difference is the depth of power. Like so many other things about the Blood, the potency of the heat is connected to the power that flows through the veins.” She reached out and tapped the pendant that held his Black Jewel. “That little bit more that might go unnoticed in a Warlord Prince who wore a lighter Jewel is going to be felt by everyone who is dealing with the Black.”

  Surreal would never want to endure that.

  Witch vanished the four brass rings. “You went to Healers who couldn’t help you. Why didn’t you talk to someone else?”

  “The only other man who wore the Black and went through this is gone,” he said bitterly.

  “Yes, Saetan is gone, but there are two people at the Keep who knew him when he was your age. And there is a Black Widow who might have supplied some answers—”

  “Oh, she was a lot of help. Cryptic dreams about the wiggle-waggle.”

  “Which you ignored.”

  She said it with a sweetness that made his balls want to tuck up inside his belly. Just in case.

  “There is also a Warlord Prince currently residing at the Keep, at least some of the time. If you had bothered to talk to him, he would have recognized what was happening and why.” Witch looked back at the posts and the chalice on the altar. “You tried so hard to repress your sexual heat, you’ve actually done some damage to your heart and lungs. It may be centuries before you feel the effects, but what you’ve done here will extract a price.”

  Daemon studied the posts and chalice. “The headaches won’t abate, will they?”

  Silence. Finally, she looked at him. “Not while this remains as it is. I can try to fix what is broken.”

  A broken vessel mended again. Did he want that? If he wanted to be there for Jaenelle Saetien while she grew up, there wasn’t a choice. “Will that relieve the pain?”

  “That will depend on how much of the damage I can repair.” Witch hesitated. “Daemon, this healing will hurt.”

  “Everything has a price. Do what you need to do.”

  Pain washed over him, through him, became him. Beyond the pain, he was aware of nothing but her voice. Sometimes she sang cadences of healing Craft. Sometimes she swore at him viciously in several languages as she carefully broke through carapaces of pus and drained swellings created by his attempt to please Surreal and subdue the sexual heat.

  Hours? Days? A lifetime? He didn’t know how long she worked, how long he endured the healing, before she finally said, “It’s done. Look. And learn.”

  Daemon climbed to his feet, having no memory of sinking to the floor next to the altar.

  The crystal chalice—his mind, his sanity—had been repaired. Again.

  The three posts and leashes that represented his control over his power, his temper, and the Sadist looked as they had before. The fourth post, his sexual heat . . . Cleaned and back to its normal size. But the loops that should have snugged the leashes to the posts were loose, and when he tried to tighten them, he discovered a ring of Witch’s darker power forming a cushion between loop and post, making it impossible for him to tighten the leashes all the way.

  “Jaenelle . . .”

  She pointed at the chalice. “I did what I could, but even I can’t mend this a fourth time. Daemon, you can’t afford to risk your sanity by being careless with yourself. You wear the Black. If you slide into the Twisted Kingdom, you could be a weapon powerful enough to destroy Kaeleer.”

  “Could you break the Black?” As soon as he said the words, he felt everything in him resist the idea. Give up the Black without a fight? Never.

  Witch gave him a look that would have shriveled his balls if this wasn’t a dream. “It doesn’t matter if I could. It will not be done, because the Shadow Realm is going to need the Black. Your family, your daughter, are going to need the High Lord.”

  He swallowed hard. “War?”

  “I don’t know, Daemon. Even I can’t see everything.”

  “But enough,” he said quietly.

  “Enough to know that the man you are will be needed. Everything you are will be needed.” Her hand moved around the chalice, not touching it, but he still felt her nearness like a caress. “You need to keep the reservoir in your Black Jewel drained enough to make room for the power your body and mind can no longer hold.”

  “Not an easy thing to do.”

  He saw the question in her eyes. He waited for her to ask why he wasn’t helping Surreal drain her Gray Jewel before her moontime. But Witch didn’t ask. Maybe she already knew.

  “I have some thoughts about that.” She pointed at the posts. “As for these . . .”

  “They’re too loose.”

  A hesitation. “Everything has a price, remember? It may take decades of slow healing before you can hold the leashes as tightly as you used to. It may be never. Your mind is too fragile to exert that kind of force on any part of you right now.”

  “At least tighten that one.” Daemon pointed to the leash made of chain and leather.

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, Daemon, but I can’t. Not if you are going to stay sane and whole.”

  “The Sadist . . .”

  “A little more easily provoked, but there are things you can do to help yourself and the people around you.”

  She seemed to be struggling to find the words, and that wasn’t like her. “Tell me.”

  “You should arrange to have a . . . sanctuary . . . at the Hall, a place different from your bedroom suite. You need a place where you can retreat when people’s response to the sexual heat starts to scrape your temper, because now the aspect of yourself most likely to respond will be the Sadist. You should discuss this with a few people you trust without question, and it must be without question. You will give them an agreed-upon phrase that they will speak if they notice your control slipping. If you hear that phrase, you will not challenge their reason for saying it; you will retreat to your sanctuary and maintain solitude until
your control gently returns. If you want a phrase in a language that wouldn’t commonly be spoken, I can help you with that.”

  “Maybe the language of the Dea al Mon.” That language wouldn’t be known to many outside the borders of the Territory ruled by the Children of the Wood.

  How much of that language had Surreal learned over the years?

  “Who should know the phrase?” Witch asked.

  “Beale and Holt at the Hall. Chaosti here at the Keep. Lucivar.”

  He considered Tersa, since a woman might sense something in him a man wouldn’t, but that would be too much weight for her broken mind to bear. Besides, Tersa would tell him in her own way if she saw trouble. If he’d talked to her all those months ago when she’d first noticed he wasn’t well, maybe he wouldn’t have endured so much pain.

  And he wouldn’t be in the Misty Place now, feeling a joyful sorrow at being with Jaenelle again, even in this limited way.

  “And Marian,” he said. She had seen—and accepted. He could trust her.

  Witch made no comment about him not including Surreal in the list.

  He didn’t know what she searched for as she studied his face, looked into his eyes, but she must have found it, because she said, “You need to stay among the living, Prince. You need to stay connected to the living. Do you understand?”

  Daughter. Brother. Maybe still a wife. Maybe. “Yes, I understand.”

  “If you give me your word that you will do your best to stay connected, I’ll make you a bargain.”

  “What bargain?”

  “When you’ve set up your sanctuary and talked to the people you named, then we’ll discuss the bargain and what to do about the Black.”

  Suddenly he was furious. Coldly, savagely furious. “What difference does any of this make?” He waved at the chalice, at the leashes, at the posts. “Dream. Vision. What difference does it make? The pain will still be there when I wake up. The misery will be there. But I’m expected to survive another day and the day after that and after that for centuries to come.”

  “If I am still your Queen, then my will is your life, and, yes, Prince, I expect you to survive. To do more than just survive.”

  “Bitch.” Wondering why his temper had slipped the leash—and wondering why it should matter—he turned away from her.

  “You asked for my help—and I answered.”

  “You’re usually kinder when I dream about you.”

  A freezing silence. Then, too softly, “You think this is a dream?”

  Something lightly brushed against his upper arm. Then he felt the shivering sensation of his skin parting moments before he felt the pain and . . .

  * * *

  * * *

  Daemon tumbled off the bed.

  Panting, he looked at his right arm, at the sleeve of his white silk shirt turning wet and red.

  Witch’s midnight voice thundered up from somewhere deep in the abyss. ٭Remembrance. Reminder.٭

  Shocked, he stumbled into the Consort’s suite, turned on the light in his bathroom. No slices in the shirt.

  Stripping off the shirt, Daemon stood in front of the mirror and stared at the four bleeding wounds that had been made by Witch’s claws.

  Remembrance. Reminder.

  When Jaenelle Saetien was born, Surreal had ripped his arm with a taloned gauntlet, but those wounds had healed, leaving no scars.

  He looked at his left wrist, at the only scar he carried. Tersa had given it to him on the day she told him that Witch walked among the living. And now . . .

  Daemon sat on the edge of the bathtub and pressed the bloody shirt to his arm.

  Not a dream. He’d been back in the Misty Place, talking to Witch. Arguing with Witch.

  He didn’t know what sort of bargain she would make with him, but it meant he would see her again. Until then, he would set up his sanctuary, do what he could to repair his marriage, and help Lucivar deal with Jillian and her suitor. He would prove to his Queen that he was willing to do more than survive.

  Swaying on his feet, Daemon washed his arm, then used healing Craft to close the wounds. Calling in the small cabinet he kept filled with healing supplies, he spread an ointment over the wounds before wrapping his biceps in gauze and putting a protective shield over the whole upper arm.

  He knew with absolute certainty that those wounds would leave scars, because they were a reminder from Witch that he wasn’t alone. They were the message that he would see every single day for the rest of his life.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Still shaky from her crying jag and confession to Marian, Surreal finished dressing moments before Lucivar barged into the guest room, grabbed her left arm, and pulled her toward the door.

  “We’re going to talk,” he snarled.

  “Get your hand off me,” she snarled back as her right hand curled in preparation for calling in her favorite stiletto.

  He turned on her, his hand tightening on her arm. “You call in a weapon, you’d better be ready to fight. And you’d better be ready for the pain that will follow, because I’ll hurt you, Surreal. Today, right now, I will hurt you.”

  Mother Night. He means it.

  She didn’t resist as he hauled her through the corridors. She caught a glimpse of Marian’s startled expression before Lucivar shoved her into his study and slammed the door. Ebon-gray shields barricaded the room. She couldn’t get out and no one could get in.

  “You want to tell me—,” she began.

  “Pretend I’m holding a weapon,” Lucivar said. “I’m pointing it at you. Threaten, threaten, blah blah blah.”

  That stupid phrase sounded a lot more terrifying when he said it.

  “We’ve already concluded the part where you threaten me, so what is this about?”

  “You tell me. What in the name of Hell is going on between you and Daemon?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Considering what I heard this morning, it damn well is my business.”

  “You . . .” Surreal felt the blood drain out of her head. She wanted to sit down but couldn’t afford to show any weakness. “Did you tell Daemon?”

  “I didn’t have to.”

  Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful.

  “You don’t know what it’s like to have the Sadist in your bed night after night!” she cried.

  “Neither do you.” Lucivar spread his wings, then folded them halfway. “You have brushed against that side of Daemon’s temper over the years, and you have seen what he can do. But believe me, Surreal, you have never danced with the Sadist when he has been focused on you.”

  “How would you know?”

  “Because I have danced with him. If that’s what you’d been facing every night for the past few months, you would not have survived this long.”

  She shook her head. She knew what she felt. “He’s been different since the night I stayed with him in his bedroom.”

  He folded his wings all the way and stepped closer. “How has he been different? And why didn’t you say something? I told you I would help you.”

  “What was I supposed to say? That I can’t think of anything but screwing him whenever he gets near me? That some days I feel like I’m nothing but a sheath for his cock?”

  “Why didn’t you say something if his sexual heat was making you uncomfortable?”

  “I did! Over and over again. What could I have said that he would hear?”

  “Something like, ‘Sugar, I need to rest tonight. Could you bank the heat?’”

  She snorted. “Could Marian say that to you?”

  “She does. Only she doesn’t call me sugar.”

  Surreal blinked. Using different words could have stopped this? No. Not possible. “I have been dealing with the Sadist.” She had to believe that, needed to believe there hadn’t been a
choice.

  Lucivar shook his head. “I’m not saying there isn’t a whisper of the Sadist or an edge to the way he sometimes plays in bed. Daemon likes to play. But you’re his friend, his partner, his lover, and his wife. When he plays with you, he knows exactly where the line is between pain and pleasure, and he will never cross it. Not with you.” He thought for a moment. “Well, he used to know where that line was, but neither of you told the other that something had changed, so I’m thinking both of you have crossed a few lines you wouldn’t normally cross—and there are wounded feelings on both sides because of it.”

  Annoyed by the scold, Surreal shrugged off those words and concentrated on something else Lucivar had said. “The Sadist crossed that line with you.” Daemon and Lucivar had a complicated history, but her stomach started flipping at the thought of them doing . . . what?

  Lucivar’s smile was bitter. “Even when we were younger and both wore the Birthright Red, he would hit me with that sexual heat and wind his particular kind of seduction spells around me, and there was nothing I could do. He played with me in front of an audience of bitch Queens. Do you have any idea what it’s like to be so mad with need, to have so little control over your own body, that your own brother could make you come in front of all those bitches?”

  Lucivar walked away and stood for a minute with his back to her, before returning.

  “I hated him for what he did to me during those entertainments. It took years before I figured out that he did it out of love. He offered those bitches an entertainment they couldn’t resist as a substitute for whatever they’d intended to do to me. Because what they’d intended would have been permanently disfiguring. I could have lost my balls or my wings. Lost my eyes, my ears. They wouldn’t have killed me and brought Saetan’s rage down on their heads, but they could have maimed me to the point of being a helpless lump that they could continue to torture. I’d seen them do that to other men. But the Sadist offered them a game that was entertainment and lesson—a lesson because he made it clear that if they touched me after he was done, he would do the same to them . . . without any mercy.”