The Queen's Weapons Page 5

  Only one way to find out.

  He knocked on the door between their rooms and waited for her invitation.

  She had taken off the matching jacket but still wore the long dress—a simple design in a rich shade of green that looked marvelous with her light brown skin, gold-green eyes, and black hair pulled up with decorative combs to reveal her delicately pointed ears.

  “I saw Lucivar as he was heading home,” Surreal said. “Official visit or family visit? Or . . .” She paled. “Hell’s fire, Sadi. The children?”

  “They’re fine. Lucivar probably aged a decade by witnessing it, but they had a thrilling adventure riding rapids and going over a waterfall.”

  She plunked down on the small sofa in the sitting area of her room. “Mother Night.”

  Crossing the room, Daemon sank to his knees in front of her and removed her shoes. “Breathe, darling. Just breathe.”

  “Did you when he told you?”

  Daemon huffed out a laugh. “Eventually.” His hands moved up her legs, massaging her calves. “If they had been in any real danger, Lucivar would have intervened.”

  “And if he’s not around the next time they get an idea?”

  “Then this experience has taught them how to protect themselves.” His hands moved higher, his fingertips lightly caressing her outer thighs from knees to hips and back again. Then that teasing butterfly caress moved to the tops of her thighs as he watched her face and read the look in her eyes. When he shifted from sitting on his heels to an upright position, she opened her legs to accommodate him.

  He stroked her inner thighs, coming close to the juncture but not touching—not because he was playing with her, but because he was waiting for her invitation.

  She leaned forward. One hand fisted in his shirt and pulled him toward her. “Sadi.”

  When there was barely a whisper of space between his lips and hers, he resisted the pull and said, “Yes?” A question. A requirement.

  “Yes.” Damn you.

  He heard the unspoken sentiment, but when his thumb stroked the damp silk and lace of her panties and she gasped, he closed his mouth over hers and let his kiss fill her with the heat of his desire and need. He gave her what her body and emotions told him she wanted—and he loved her until she was too sated to want more.

  TWO

  Surreal woke at first light and looked at the man sleeping beside her. Maybe still sleeping. His awareness of her was such that he usually woke before she did, sensing some change in her body or her breathing or her psychic scent.

  Daemon never fully relaxed anymore when he slept with her. Hadn’t fully relaxed in her bed in years. Just like he wouldn’t go beyond the first indication that he was willing to have sex until she said yes. Not an unspoken agreement either. She had to say it. Even when she initiated that particular dance, she had to tell him she wanted him.

  She knew why he did it, but Hell’s fire, who would have thought Daemon Sadi would turn into milquetoast in bed, always asking permission, always assessing her reaction to see if what he was doing pleased her? Remembering the thrilling edge that used to be part of his lovemaking, the difference between the man who should be coming to her bed and the man who was coming to her bed grated.

  “Problem?” Daemon asked. His deep voice with its sexual purr made all kinds of promises that wouldn’t be fulfilled.

  Maybe she could persuade him to give her a little of the old lover again.

  She reached under the covers and closed her hand around his cock. Already hard and ready to be ridden. Fisting one hand in his hair just hard enough to sting, she kept working him with her other hand as she gave him a hard kiss, her tongue tangling with his.

  Breaking the kiss, she straddled him. “Yes?” she asked, leaning over him but holding his head down to keep him from kissing her.

  “Yes.”

  She positioned herself over his cock, eased down just enough for him to feel her opening. Teasing. Tormenting.

  “Yes?” she asked sweetly.

  “Yes,” he snarled, his gold eyes glazing with a hint of temper.

  She sheathed him and rode him—and thought she saw, and felt, a glimmer of the man he used to be.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Daemon tucked into his breakfast with enthusiasm—and wondered what had come over Surreal that morning. It was the first time in a long time that she’d seemed to enjoy being with him instead of being overwhelmed by his sexual heat or disappointed in the careful sex he offered.

  “What are your plans for the day?” he asked, slicing into a piece of steak.

  “Nothing I can’t change as long as Holt isn’t allowed to scold me for not handing over reports and paperwork,” she replied. “Why?”

  “I’m on a hunt. Care to join me?”

  She set down her knife and fork, and he saw the Dea al Mon side of her nature shining in her gold-green eyes. Surreal did love a hunt.

  “What are we hunting?” she asked.

  “Art supplies and artists.”

  She blinked. Then she picked up her utensils and resumed eating. “When people talk about critics killing an artist, they don’t mean that literally.” She paused. “Usually. So who are we hunting down and why? Garish colors? Poor design?”

  “If that were the case, it would be shortsighted of me to make a kill and have the artist end up in Hell. One doesn’t acquire talent by becoming demon-dead, not if it wasn’t there when the person walked among the living.” Considering the artwork he displayed in the Hall located in the Dark Realm as a kindness to someone fulfilling a dream before becoming a whisper in the Darkness, he knew being dead didn’t unleash any latent talents.

  He told her about Titian’s interest in art and Lucivar’s desire to encourage the girl—and his offer to help.

  “The art supplies are easy,” Surreal said. “You can find those in Amdarh.”

  You, not we.

  Daemon swallowed disappointment along with his coffee.

  “However, I did cross paths with a couple of artists who might be able to offer some advice,” Surreal continued. “One of them is on my list of things to discuss with you. She expressed an interest in teaching art at the school we run for half-Blood children. I gather a relationship of long duration has ended recently, and she wants to get away from the city where they had lived and make a fresh start.”

  “Are there any available cottages or row houses at the school?”

  She shook her head. “I checked on my way home. But there are a couple of cottages in the village itself that are available. One is in good condition. The other would need some work, but it has a small building at the back of the garden that I think would work as an artist’s studio. Big windows. Lots of light. I think we should look at the cottages and talk to the artist before you choose the art supplies.”

  Daemon smiled. An adventure they could share before his heat became too uncomfortable for her to tolerate and they needed to go their own ways. Again. “Yes. Let’s do that.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien strolled down Riada’s main street. At least, he hoped they looked like two youngsters who were checking out the shops.

  “Why did you want me to walk around the village with you?” Jaenelle Saetien asked. “Are we going to do something?”

  She would wander around the countryside for hours, finding all kinds of things that caught her interest whether it was here or at the Hall. But she needed some kind of goal in order to hold her attention when walking around a village.

  “You’re my blind,” Daemonar replied, nodding to Lord Zaranar when the Eyrien warrior stepped out of a shop across the street.

  “I’m your what?” Jaenelle Saetien said too loudly.

  “Hush. Don’t make a fuss. A blind is a way hunters can disguise their presence and not alarm thei
r prey.”

  She thought about that. “So you’re hunting?”

  “I am.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “Someone hurt Titian, and I want to have a little chat with that person without my father or Rothvar figuring out who it was.”

  She stopped and stared at him. “Who hurt Titian?”

  She was only one-quarter Dea al Mon, but she was a scrapper—and her loyalty to family was as fierce as his own.

  “I’ll deal with the who,” he replied. “That’s why you and I are walking around Riada this morning, looking in shop windows and ending up at the bakery, where we’ll buy pieces of fudge cake drizzled with chocolate sauce.”

  “My payment for being a blind?”

  “Sure.” Also something his father could verify if the question arose about what they’d been doing in the village.

  “We could go to the bookshop,” Jaenelle Saetien said. “I’ve read all the books I brought with me.”

  “I’ll pay for the fudge cake, but I’m not buying a book,” Daemonar said, drawing a line on how much he was willing to spend for her help.

  “I didn’t ask you to.” Her voice turned snippy. “I have my own money.”

  “All right, then. But let’s go to the variety shop instead. They have some books there.” Just not as many. Best to avoid bookshop temptation if they wanted enough time to eat a piece of fudge cake before they had to head back to the eyrie. His mother expected them home for the midday meal, and being late would spark his father’s temper, something he didn’t want to do since he had important things to discuss with Lucivar.

  They headed for the variety shop that lived up to its name by having a little of this and some of that—and never the same this and that from one month to the next. He had a better chance of finding his quarry there than in the bookshop since she claimed books were dull—a recent change of opinion—but was always looking for something to buy, despite having limited spending money. He’d helped her out a couple of times to spare her the embarrassment of admitting that she couldn’t afford the item she’d placed on the counter, but he wouldn’t do that again. He saw no reason to help someone who was mean to his sister.

  As luck would have it, his quarry and her “court” were coming out of the variety shop as he and Jaenelle Saetien approached it.

  “Why don’t you go in and look for a book?” Daemonar suggested quietly. “This won’t take long.”

  Jaenelle Saetien nodded to Orian and the handful of Rihlander girls who were with her and went inside the shop.

  “Daemonar.” Orian’s smile seemed genuine, but there was a look of expectation in her eyes that he didn’t like—as if she wanted confirmation that her words to Titian had hit their mark.

  “Orian,” he replied. He nodded to the other girls. “Ladies.”

  “It’s Lady Orian.” She tapped a finger next to her Birthright Summer-sky Jewel. “A Queen is not addressed so informally in public, even by a friend.”

  “If we’re playing that game, you should address me as Prince Daemonar—or Prince Yaslana, since I outrank you.”

  “It’s not a game,” she snapped. When she spotted Lord Tamnar and her brother, Alanar, across the street, she reined in her temper. “You shouldn’t be disrespectful to a Queen.”

  “Respect goes both ways,” he replied, well aware of the two Eyrien Warlords who were watching them. They weren’t moving toward him to intervene. Not yet.

  Orian gave him a sharp smile. “How is Titian? I hope she took my advice to heart.”

  Bitch. All right, then. Like to like. “You mean the advice that a true Eyrien wouldn’t draw flowers?” He bared his teeth in a smile as he gave her hair, with its natural curl, a pointed look. “Well, I guess you would know about not being true Eyrien.”

  The other girls gasped at the insult. Orian looked like he’d stuck a knife in her and twisted the blade.

  Good.

  He stepped closer to Orian, aware that Tamnar and Alanar were crossing the street and he had only moments left to deliver his message. “I don’t care if you’re a girl. I don’t care if you’re a Queen. If you jab at my sister again, I will bloody you.”

  He took a step back and looked at the two Eyrien Warlords, who were his friends. “Tamnar. Alanar.”

  “Daemonar,” Tamnar said. He eyed the girls. “Ladies.” Then he focused on Daemonar and asked on a psychic spear thread, *Problem?*

  *No, no problem,* he replied. *I think the message was understood.*

  He swung around the girls, who scrambled to get out of his way, and walked into the shop. He wasn’t surprised to find Jaenelle Saetien hovering near the door instead of looking at books, but he wondered if she’d intended to try to help him or pull him off Orian if it had ended up a physical fight.

  “The books are that way,” he said, pointing to the corner of the shop that held the shelves.

  “What you said to Orian about not being true Eyrien,” she said quietly. “That was mean.”

  “She deserved it.”

  Jaenelle Saetien hesitated. “Uncle Lucivar wouldn’t have said it.”

  “True.” But Uncle Daemon would have.

  He wasn’t going to get away with this clean, not with Tamnar and Alanar having witnessed his collision with Orian. Alanar wasn’t that much older than him, but Tamnar had made the Blood Run, the first important rite of passage for an Eyrien male, and was on the cusp of making the Offering to the Darkness. Since he was considered an adult and would be held accountable if he said nothing, he would report the incident to Rothvar and let Lucivar’s second-in-command decide if the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih needed to be informed.

  So be it.

  Despite the limited selection, Jaenelle Saetien found two books of interest, and he found one for himself. By the time they walked out of the shop, Orian and her “court” weren’t in sight. Neither were Tamnar and Alanar. He suspected the Warlords were now escorting the girls to wherever they wanted to go.

  He hoped it wasn’t the bakery.

  “I think we should split a piece of fudge cake,” Jaenelle Saetien said as they walked into the bakery.

  “Why?”

  “And I think we should pool our money and buy a full cake and a jar of the chocolate sauce and take it home for the sweet.”

  Even if she’d already made something for the after-meal sweet, his mother would appreciate the gesture. “All right.”

  He would have let Jaenelle Saetien have more than her share as thanks for her help, but she carefully cut the piece of cake in half—and she was just as careful to pay for half the treat they were bringing home to Marian.

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Arriving home a few minutes before the midday meal, Lucivar looked at the fudge cake and jar of sauce on the kitchen counter and said, “Well, everything has a price.”

  “What trouble are those two trying to buy their way out of with that?” Marian asked, tipping her head toward the cake and sauce.

  He wasn’t sure how to answer that. “I’ll deal with it.”

  “Lucivar?” She laid a hand on his arm and studied his face. “You don’t disapprove of whatever Daemonar and Jaenelle Saetien did.”

  “What he did.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure. I can’t say I wouldn’t have done the same.” But not in the same way, and it was his firstborn’s method of retaliation that gave him an uneasy twitch.

  At Daemonar’s age, he’d been fighting to survive in the Eyrien hunting camps, but he wouldn’t have slapped at a Queen in any way, regardless of what she’d said or done. After he’d gotten the first taste of pain that the Queens in Askavi Terreille inflicted on men just because they could hurt anyone under their control? He would have savaged the bitch as lesson and warning.

  He had savaged the bitches, and the stories of that savagery were one reason why he had been so f
eared. Was still so feared.

  “He didn’t come home bloody,” Marian said with a sigh. “I guess that’s something.”

  “I’m going to wash up.” Lucivar gave her a light kiss. “Don’t worry about it. Nothing but feelings were hurt.”

  As he reached the archway that separated the kitchen from the large front room, Marian said, “Sometimes those are the hurts that take the longest to heal.”

  He looked back at her. “Yeah, I know.”

  * * *

  ◆ ◆ ◆

  Nothing was said during the midday meal. Maybe that meant no one had told his father about the chat he’d had with Orian.

  That kernel of hope was crushed as soon as the meal ended and Lucivar looked him in the eyes and said, “My study. Now.”

  Wondering what had been said, and if he’d be dealing with his father as his father or as the Warlord Prince of Ebon Rih, Daemonar followed Lucivar into the study—and wasn’t sure what to think when Lucivar took one of the seats in front of the large blackwood desk instead of sitting behind it.

  He settled in the other seat and tried to look curious and attentive, as if he had no idea why he’d been called into the study. No idea at all. “Sir?”

  Lucivar said nothing for a piece of forever. Then, “Endar and Dorian came to Kaeleer with their children during the last service fair, same as Jillian and Nurian. Same as many of the Eyriens who live around Ebon Rih. Everyone who came to those fairs was hoping for a chance at a new life, a better life. In Endar’s case, it was also to protect a daughter who was a Queen—and whose hair made it obvious that there was another race besides Eyrien somewhere in her bloodline.

  “You’ve known Orian since you were both toddlers. You’ve played together, gone to school together. From what I could tell, you’ve always gotten along. And yet, today, you gave her a verbal punch in front of her friends. Why?”

  Daemonar stared at the floor between his feet and clamped his hands over his knees to keep from fidgeting. He couldn’t lie, and he couldn’t slide around a direct question. “Orian said something mean to Titian, so I said something mean to her so she would know how much it hurt.”