Tangled Webs bj-6 Page 7

  He knew that rhythm. It seldom boded well.

  “Are you asleep?” Jaenelle asked.

  “Mmmm.” Noncommittal response. Could mean anything. tap. tap tap.

  “Daemon?”

  He opened his eyes halfway.

  “When we have sex, does your penis weep with gratitude?”

  A handful of answers flashed through his mind. If he said any of them, he would end up sleeping in the Consort’s room. Alone.

  “In what context?” he asked.

  She lowered the book. Since he’d acknowledged being awake, he raised his head and read the passage. Then he read it again.

  “Sweetheart, if my penis ever does that, you will be the first to know. Not as my wife, but as a Healer.”

  “That’s what I thought, but I wanted to be sure.”

  Hearing the frown in her voice, he shifted, reluctantly, and propped himself up on one elbow. “What are you reading?”

  She flashed him a guilty look. “A book by Jarvis Jenkell.”

  At least you didn’t kick me this time. “That book doesn’t start with a body in a closet, does it?”

  “Yes, it does.”

  Hell’s fire. Well, Rainier would get to deal with Surreal when they reached that part of the story. And wouldn’t that be fun?

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with his brain?”

  He studied her expression. Not a flippant question.

  “Do you think there’s something wrong with his sanity?”

  Definitely not a flippant question when asked by a witch who was a Black Widow as well as a Healer.

  “Are we talking about the writer or the character?” Daemon asked.

  “I’m not sure,” she replied, looking troubled.

  Uneasy now, he pulled the sheet up to his waist, a defensive gesture. “Why are you asking? Because Jenkell wrote a bad sex scene?” Appalling was a more accurate description.

  “No, I’m asking because he seems to think this is normal behavior for the Blood.”

  He hesitated a moment, then said softly, “It’s not that far off from what was done in some of the Terreillean courts.” Other places. Other beds. None where he served willingly. Those weren’t memories he wanted to stir up and bring to the surface. Not now. Not ever.

  Jaenelle looked at him with those sapphire eyes. Looked through him. Saw him in ways no one else ever had—or could.

  She vanished the book, then shifted so that she was propped up on an elbow, close enough to him that all she had to do was lean a little to kiss him.

  Memories swam up to the surface. Ugly, hateful memories. As he looked at Jaenelle, his heart pounded, but it wasn’t from excitement or lust.

  Submit. Serve. Play the whore.

  He couldn’t do it. Not even as a game. Not with Jaenelle.

  “Daemon?” Her lips touched his in a soft kiss.

  He couldn’t do this, had to stop this before she became aroused. If he tried to oblige her while the memories churned inside him, it would damage the feelings between them.

  “Do you want to sneak down to the kitchen and snitch whatever Mrs. Beale is hiding in the cold box?”

  He blinked once. Twice. Waited for his heart to settle back down to a normal beat.

  Love and mischief. That’s what he saw in her eyes. She, too, had emotional scars that had come from violence in the bed. She would recognize when something came too close to one of his scars.

  As she looked at him, waiting for an answer, different memories washed through his mind. Memories of Jaenelle when she was twelve and he had been her grandmother’s pleasure slave. She had talked him into silly, mischievous adventures during those months, dragging him into the game like a well-loved toy that had half the stuffing hugged out of it. She’d given him a taste of innocent childhood.

  She was making the same offer now.

  “We do have our own kitchen and some food in the cold box.” Well, he had his own small kitchen where he could putter around when he felt like cooking. That recent renovation was a very large thorn in Mrs. Beale’s side, and he had the feeling that the negotiations required before she accepted that addition had just begun.

  The fact that a Yellow-Jeweled witch, whom he paid very well to be the cook at the Hall, could make him uneasy about renovating his own home sparked a little, boyish flame of defiance in him.

  “Do you think there’s anything worth snitching?” he asked.

  “This afternoon, when I went to the kitchen doorway to ask for a plate of fruit and cheese, she seemed more territorial than usual.”

  That was a terrifying thought.

  He brushed a finger over Jaenelle’s shoulder. “We do own the Hall, and we do pay for all the food, so we are entitled to eat anything we want from either kitchen.”

  “Uh-huh. If we’re caught, you should try that argument.”

  A picture in his head: him with his hands full of pilfered food; Mrs. Beale and her meat cleaver, both wearing old-fashioned, frilly nightcaps, blocking the doorway and waiting for an explanation.

  Mother Night.

  Since they were partners in this late-night venture, he reached for Jaenelle’s mind and lightly brushed against her first inner barrier. When she opened the barrier, he showed her his imagined picture of Mrs. Beale.

  “Oh. Ick.” Jaenelle scrunched up her face and made gagging noises. Then she stopped making noises and looked at him, her eyes owl wide. “Do you think she really wears one of those things? Does anyone wear those anymore?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Beale sleeps with her,” Jaenelle whispered. “Do you think the meat cleaver has its own little bed?”

  He shuddered. “If I were Beale, I wouldn’t share a bed with that meat cleaver.” Although Beale might think the same about him occasionally sharing a bed with an eight-hundred-pound cat.

  “They have sex,” Jaenelle whispered.

  “No. No no no. That is too scary to consider.” He swung out of bed. “Come on. Let’s do this before one of us remembers we’re supposed to be adults.”

  She laughed, and that silvery, velvet-coated sound washed away the rest of the bad memories, leaving nothing but the anticipation of a mischievous adventure.

  They were laughing at him.

  He’d gone to the bookshop in Amdarh that afternoon to spend some time among his own kind, to give them a chance to recognize who he was—and to listen to their praise of his latest book.

  The Blood hadn’t recognized him, hadn’t recognized the significance of his being in that store. As for praising his latest book…

  Oh, they had liked him well enough when they had thought he was a clever landen who could spin a good tale, but when he had tried to show them who he really was, the truth about what he was, they had laughed at him.

  Landry Langston wasn’t just a character in a story. Landry Langston was him. A half-Blood raised by a landen mother. A half-Blood who had matured into a man strong enough to be Blood.

  He didn’t know their customs, didn’t know their Protocol, didn’t know what it meant to be Blood. How could he? He hadn’t grown up in one of their precious villages, hadn’t grown up surrounded by this dance, as they called the constant ebb and flow of dominance that depended on who was in the room. Instead of being trained all through his childhood and youth, as he should have been, he had to pay for information about his heritage. His “consultants” had been quick enough to take the gold marks he offered in exchange for “research,” but he now wondered about the accuracy of their information—and wondered if they’d given him just enough to make him look foolish.

  As for his other “consultant”…Well, he couldn’t trust much of anything that came from that mind.

  At the bookshop, they had laughed at his portrayal of the Blood, had laughed at him. But they had done much worse here at the hotel. Here, they pitied him.

  Thank the Dark he hadn’t used his real name when he checked in. After that humiliation in the bookshop, he didn’t want anyone to know
he was in this thrice-cursed city. He almost changed his mind about revealing who he was when the clerks at the desk did acknowledge him as Blood. Then he looked into their eyes and listened to their carefully phrased words…and realized they thought he was a broken male, someone who had been stripped of so much of his power, he was barely one of them anymore.

  Didn’t stop them from taking the gold marks. No, his lack of power didn’t stop any of them from taking a hefty fee for the pittance they were willing to share.

  Like this room. If he’d gone to a landen establishment in a nearby city, he could have had a better room for half the price. But he’d wanted to stay at a hotel that catered to the Blood. For what? The room he’d been given wasn’t any different from rooms he’d had in landen cities—was, in fact, stripped of almost everything that required Craft. On purpose. Because they didn’t believe he was capable of being like them.

  And he wasn’t capable. Not yet anyway.

  They thought they were so special, so powerful, so superior.

  Daemon Sadi, for example. He’d personally sent Prince Sadi a copy of his new book. The bastard hadn’t even had the courtesy to write a sentence acknowledging the gift. And certainly hadn’t sent the desired dinner invitation.

  And then there was Lady Surreal. He’d heard of her. Who hadn’t heard of her? Nothing but a whore, but she could stand in a shop and publicly laugh at an educated man for no other reason than because she wore a Jewel.

  There was more than one kind of power. The Blood made the rules and ruled the Realm, but they weren’t all-powerful, weren’t invincible. A clever man could defeat them and prove he was worthy of notice, of respect.

  Pitting one kind of skill against another, a clever man could defeat them. Even the most powerful among them.

  Of course, it might not be prudent to admit being the author of such a scheme, but he’d know, for himself, that he could stand among them.

  And Lady Jaenelle Angelline herself had provided him with a way of covering his tracks. He’d been a little upset when he’d thought she had stolen his idea and spoiled the setting for his next novel, but now that only meant that people could confirm he’d begun the new Landry Langston story before the tragic events took place.

  Yes, there was more than one kind of power, and he had the means of weaving a wonderful plot.

  He would give the Blood a story the SaDiablo family would never forget.

  At least, the ones who were still alive.

  SIX

  “No, witch-child. I will not say bwaa ha ha.”

  “But it’s for—”

  “No!” Saetan slammed the books down on the blackwood table in the Keep’s library. “If you choose to insult what we are, that is your decision. But I will not participate.”

  Jaenelle stared at him, stunned. “It’s just a little fun.”

  “Fun!” He choked on his anger, since it had no outlet that wouldn’t end in fierce destruction. “You’re turning what we are into a mockery, and you think this is fun?” He turned away from her, his daughter and his Queen, and pressed the heels of his hands against his temples as he struggled for control.

  “Saetan…”

  Bewilderment. Hurt. She’d come to the Keep to share something amusing and hadn’t been prepared for him to turn on her. How could she? He wasn’t sure if he was lashing out at her as her father or as her former, and still unofficial, Steward.

  He turned to look at her, and he also wasn’t sure if it was Jaenelle or Witch who now watched him. No matter. He would have his say.

  “We are the Blood, the caretakers of the Realms. We come from various races, but we are no longer a part of those races. We have our own culture that spans those racial cultures. We have our own laws, our own code of honor that landens don’t understand and couldn’t live by even if they tried. We rule the Territories, and we control the lives of all the landens in those Territories. But we are the minority, Jaenelle. Despite the sometimes brutal way we deal with each other, we seldom need to unleash that power and temper against landens because we are feared. Because we are a mystery mostly seen from a distance. And now you are turning us into a cheap entertainment.”

  He choked. Such a long, long life. So many things that he’d done, both good and terrible.

  “By letting some children dictate what we are like, you turn us into a safe, insignificant fear. Cobwebs and creaking doors and funny sounds. We become something to laugh at. So I ask you, Lady. What happens when those boys who find us amusing become men and feel they can ignore the laws established for the landens? What happens when they challenge the Warlords who come on behalf of the Queens who rule over their villages? What happens when they gather in force to attack the Blood and discover how vicious—and how complete—the slaughter can be when we fight?”

  A long silence. Then Jaenelle said, “Why didn’t you mention this when you first heard about it? You haven’t said anything in the past few weeks while Marian and I have been putting this together.”

  “It wasn’t my place to say anything. And, frankly, it hurt too much that it was you, of all people, who was doing this to us.”

  Another long silence. “My apologies, High Lord,” Jaenelle said quietly. “I didn’t see this as you did, didn’t consider the consequences if people believed this was anything other than make-believe. We’ll close the house. Put an end to it.”

  He shook his head. “You can’t. The idea has already taken root, and the news that Lady Angelline”—he saw her wince—“is creating a spooky house as an autumnal entertainment has spread to Blood and landen villages alike. I’m sure Daemon and Lucivar will help you control the crowds—”

  “Crowds?” She looked alarmed.

  “And Daemon will handle any complaints from the Queens who are dealing with the visitors flooding into the surrounding villages.”

  “Complaints? Visitors?”

  He crossed his arms over his chest. “What did you expect? Just a handful of children from the landen village where the house is located?”

  “Well…yes.”

  His heart ached with love and exasperation. “Then you really have no idea what you’ve done.” Sighing, he ran his fingers through his hair. “Very well, witch-child. I’ll give you your funny sound. But I want a favor in exchange.”

  She tipped her head and waited.

  “Somewhere in your spooky house, let there be one thing that will show those children who and what we really are, that will show them what they face when they stand before the Blood.”

  “Done.”

  “Then let’s find a room that’s a little more private.”

  There were only the two of them in the library, but Geoffrey could return at any moment.

  His face burned with embarrassment as he walked to the door, and he knew that, even with his light brown skin, color visibly flamed his cheeks. He would do this, not just because Jaenelle asked it of him, but because someone else’s sensibilities were at stake.

  “I promise, Papa. No one will know it’s you,” Jaenelle said as she stopped at the door.

  “Thank you,” he replied faintly.

  She looked at him. Then she looked at the table stacked with books. Her lips curved in a wicked smile. “If you want us to keep pretending that you’re sorting old books whenever we come by to chat, you shouldn’t slam them on the table. We all know you wouldn’t do that to a book that was truly ancient and fragile.”

  He closed his eyes and promised himself that he would not whimper. “You all know?”

  “Well, I don’t think any of the boyos have figured it out, but all of the coven knows.”

  May the Darkness have mercy on me.

  “Come on, Papa. Let’s go bwaa ha ha.”

  Daemon tucked the tip of his tongue between his teeth and bit down hard enough to keep himself from saying something stupid.

  If he’d walked in on his father having sex—when Saetan was still physically capable of having sex—it would have been less embarrassing than hearing that vo
ice say “bwaa ha ha.”

  “What do you think?” Jaenelle asked.

  Eyeing the audio crystal sitting on the corner of his desk, Daemon bit his tongue a little harder and counted to ten—twice—before he said, “It sounds like the High Lord.”

  She studied the audio crystal, clearly disappointed. “I don’t want to lose the quality of his voice, but I did try to adjust it so it wouldn’t be recognizable.”

  There’s nothing you can do to disguise that voice, Daemon thought.

  Then she perked up, looked more hopeful. “Of course, you would recognize his voice, but it’s not likely that anyone else will. Not now that it’s altered a bit.”

  Which was when Lucivar walked into the study, carrying Daemonar in a grip that indicated they’d already had one discussion about whether the little beast could run free in the Hall.

  “I’m not sure what Marian is working on today, but we were strongly encouraged to leave home,” Lucivar said. “So here we are.”

  «We can take him up to the playroom,» Daemon said on an Ebon-gray spear thread.

  «You’ve got plenty of shields there and nothing breakable?» Lucivar asked.

  «Oh, yes.»

  “Well, you’re just in time,” Jaenelle said, beaming at her brother and nephew. “Listen to this.”

  “Bwaa ha ha.”

  Daemonar squealed and struggled to get free. “Granpapa! Granpapa!”

  Not daring to look at anyone, Daemon stared at his shoes and began to understand his father’s fascination with footwear.

  Jaenelle sighed. “All right. I’ll work on it.”

  Lucivar studied both of them and began backing away. “We’ll just wait in the hall.”

  “Ba ha! Ba ha!” Daemonar shouted. “Granpapa, ba ha!”

  Once Lucivar and Daemonar were safely on the other side of the door, Jaenelle said, “Do you think Daemonar will forget?”

  Not a chance. “Of course he will. He’s little.”

  She gave him a kiss that tasted of a promise for a very interesting evening, then said ruefully, “Thank you for lying.”

  He rested his hands on her waist. “You’re welcome.” He hesitated, but a nagging curiosity made him ask. “What were you going to do if he’d refused?”