The Shadow Queen (12 page)

She was Witch’s choice. Because of a web of dreams and visions. How could she not try?

“In that case, Lady,” Cassidy said, “I’ll see you in seven days.”

CHAPTER 7

KAELEER

*
T
heran? Theran! Wait! These are good smells!*

Theran hunched his shoulders and walked faster. When he was ten years old, he’d spent a week sulking and pining because Talon wouldn’t let him have a dog. Why in the name of Hell had he ever wanted one of the damn things?

*Theran!*

And how was he supposed to shake free of this one? Maybe, once he was in the village, she’d get distracted by another of those damn smells and he could slip away, and she’d lose the trail, the scent, whatever. Maybe she’d latch on to some other unsuspecting man.

Of course, there would be the little problem of going back to the Hall without her, but she’d find her way home, wouldn’t she? Eventually?

*Theran!*

When
he
got home, he was going to apologize to Talon for being such a whiny little prick about not having a pet. Sure, that was seventeen years ago and something Talon had shrugged off, but the man had raised him and now with the wisdom of maturity—and less than an hour’s worth of actual experience—he knew Talon’s decision had been the correct one.

*Theran!*

He caught sight of the village of Halaway and forgot about the dog.

The road was the main street of a small, prosperous-looking village. Confident that he would go undetected at the depth of his Green Jewel, he sent out psychic tendrils to get a feel for the place. For a moment, he thought he detected a ripple of power under the strength of the Green, but it was gone before he could be certain.

The village smelled clean. There was no underlying psychic odor of fear that was typical in Dena Nehele’s villages. These people were practically on the doorstep of SaDiablo Hall, but they weren’t afraid of the power that lived there.

He wanted this for his own people, he thought as he strolled down the sidewalk, glancing into shop windows. He wanted this for the town of Grayhaven. He watched how the people moved, noticed the lack of wariness and tension when men and women passed one another on the sidewalks.

Then a door opened a couple of shops up. The woman who was leaving said,“Yes, I’ll watch for that” to someone in the shop and didn’t notice him until she stepped right in front of him.

He didn’t particularly like the gold eyes that were typical of the long-lived races, but she would have been an attractive woman if she hadn’t cropped her black hair so damn short. What was it about the women here that they tried to look unappealing? Sure, men served and women ruled the bed, but at least back home the women knew that arousing a man was the first step to their own pleasure.

“Prince,” she said, sounding cautious—as she should when addressing a male of his caste, especially one who wore a dark Jewel.

He frowned at her, not bothering to hide his disapproval of her appearance.

Then he caught a whiff of her psychic scent and thought,
Oh, shit,
just before he was surrounded by hard-eyed, grim-faced men who seemed to come out of nowhere—including a Red-Jeweled Warlord who was holding a sledgehammer and was big enough to be a wall without any help.

“Gentlemen,” the Queen said, tapping the Red-Jeweled wall on the shoulder.

No clean psychic scent in the village now. These men were pissed off, insulted that he’d
frowned
at their Queen.

They didn’t yield, didn’t obey—and Theran recognized a fight he couldn’t win.

Then . . .

*Theran!* Annoyance rang through a broad psychic thread, followed by a muttered, *Stubborn sheep.*

A vein of amusement suddenly flowed through the anger surrounding him. The circle shifted—and he didn’t need to see the Queen peer around the large Warlord and smile to know that the dog was standing next to him.

“Lady Vae,” the Queen said.

*Lady Sylvia,* Vae replied. *He is Theran. He is staying with Daemon and Jaenelle. I am taking him for walkies so he can see the village. We will get some food and he will sit and watch humans so he will learn how to behave.*

Sylvia’s gold eyes sparkled. “Are you a stubborn sheep, Prince Theran?”

Sensing the amount of temper still focused on him, he decided not to answer, since he didn’t think he could keep his voice sufficiently civil.

*I am helping to train him,* Vae said. *I am allowed to bite. But not hard. Not the first time.*

Hell’s fire.

“I see.” Sylvia ducked behind the Warlord. That didn’t muffle the snorts and giggles.

He felt the anger break around him, and he had a feeling that whatever was coming was a harder punishment than a beating would have been.

“Well,” Sylvia said, struggling to maintain some dignity as she stepped clear of the large Warlord. “We shouldn’t delay your training any longer. Prince Theran, just tell any of the dining houses to put your meal on the Hall’s tab.”

Did he look like he didn’t have marks to spare?

“It’s customary,” Sylvia added, showing more understanding than he liked.

The men opened up a space for him but not in a way that would allow him to get within reach of Lady Sylvia.

Accepting the dismissal and wanting to get away from the village, he started to turn back toward the Hall, then swore loudly when he got nipped.

*This way, Theran. This way!*

Not daring to do anything else, he let himself be herded down the main street with the Sceltie trotting a step behind him, ready to nip at his heels.

Mother Night, it was humiliating—and him a Warlord Prince!

*Sheep brains,* Vae said, finally trotting alongside him.

“What?”

*You made those males angry. You act like you have sheep brains. Foolish.*

“I didn’t do anything!” He kept his voice low, but he’d be damned if he’d swallow being scolded by a
dog.

*You did. You made them angry. They do not fight for no reason.*

They didn’t have a reason. Not really. Sure, he’d expressed an opinion of sorts, and he wouldn’t have if he’d caught Sylvia’s psychic scent first. But, Hell’s fire, she didn’t
look
like a Queen with that hair and the shirt and trousers and . . .

He was making excuses for himself. He
hadn’t
been careful, and if Vae hadn’t amused them all, he wouldn’t be strolling through the village. He’d be wounded—or dead.

He hadn’t survived in Dena Nehele by being careless. He couldn’t afford to set aside all the things Talon had taught him just because he didn’t have a clear sense of the battlefield. And he couldn’t afford to forget that the power that had devastated Terreille had come from Kaeleer.

So he walked and he watched. Children tensed at the sight of a stranger, then relaxed again when they saw Vae. Clearly the dog was a signal he didn’t understand. He didn’t approach, didn’t talk to them, but he saw a pattern when he passed a group of children—the boys stepped forward, creating a shield between him and the girls.

“The men who were angry,” Theran said. “Were they all members of the Queen’s court?”

*They live in the village,* Vae replied. *They serve.*

“But were they court?”

No, I do not think any of them were court.*

“Then why did they do that?”

Vae stopped walking and looked at him. *It is their right to defend.* She turned her head and sniffed the air. *There is food.*

Whatever the usual rule about animals being inside a dining house, the young witch who greeted them took one look at Vae, tipped her head as if in private conversation, then settled them at a table next to the windows.

He had a bowl of soup. Vae had a small plate of raw stew meat.

He ate slowly, watching, thinking.

The males considered it their
right
to defend, not their duty. So different from what he came from, what he knew.

Could his people do it? Could the males who would have to form the First Circle be able to make the transition from duty to desire?

He had no answers, so he watched and he thought—and he wondered.

 

Daemon buttoned the last button of his white silk shirt as Saetan walked into the bedroom.

“How do you feel?” Saetan asked.

“Better. Embarrassed.” Daemon tucked the shirt into his trousers and gave more thought to the question. “Hungry.” He’d slept for a few hours and didn’t feel as shaky as he’d felt early that morning. But he still had to face that room, and that was better done on an empty stomach.

“Then I’ll join you before I retire for the afternoon.” Saetan opened the door.

Slipping into his black jacket, Daemon stepped into the corridor and stared at the door to the Consort’s bedroom.

Saetan crossed the corridor, opened the door, and stepped into the room. Daemon hesitated, almost hoping for a command to stay out. When it didn’t come, he followed his father into the room and looked toward the left wall that held the doors leading to the bathroom and closet.

It smelled clean, like it did when Helene gave the room its seasonal scrubbing. Almost too clean, he thought as he noticed the lack of psychic scent. A hint of his presence was still there under the scents of soap and polish, but less than usual. Less than a cleaning would account for.

“Well?” Saetan asked quietly.

Better this way. That lack of presence was better.

The room was safe again. Chaste again. And he wouldn’t . . .

He looked at the bed.

“Daemon, back away from whatever you’re thinking.
Daemon.
”

The whiplash command and the power behind it was barely enough, but he leashed the desire—and felt disgust rising in its place.

He forced himself to say the words, to admit what he wanted to deny with all his heart. “The Sadist was in that bed with her last night.”

“Yes, he was,” Saetan said quietly. “And I imagine he enjoyed being there.”

He studied his father, not sure how to interpret the words.

Saetan sighed and rubbed two fingers across his forehead as if trying to ease an ache. “It’s unfortunate that this happened last night when you were churned up with memories of Terreille, but, Daemon, it would have happened. Because of who you are. Because of who Jaenelle is. This would have happened.”

“No.”

“Yes. You’ve twisted a part of yourself into a powerful weapon, honed it to the point people have given it a different name.
You’ve
given it a different name. But it’s part of your nature, Daemon. It’s part of your caste. It’s in every one of us.”

“What is?”

“There’s no name for it. It’s not like the rut, which is a kind of physical insanity that can be recognized by anyone who knows what to look for. This is emotional—and it’s darker, more dangerous when it happens. It’s the thrill of being feared while you seduce your lover to the point where she doesn’t want to refuse. And at the same time it’s the comfort of being able to reveal that side of your nature to a lover and know you’re still trusted.” Saetan lowered his hand and stared at the bed. “It’s a potential for violence that is transformed into a kind of ruthless gentleness.”

“If this is part of our caste, why isn’t it recognized like the rut?” Daemon asked.
And why have I never heard about it?

“Because it’s something that shifts inside you for an hour, for a night—or sometimes for only as long as it takes you to feel that moment of possession, that moment when you look at a woman and think,
Mine,
and know it’s true.

“The potential to possess. The
desire
to possess. Warlord Princes are dominating, territorial, and possessive. Most of the time those traits are seen in relation to other males, to possible rivals.” Saetan looked him in the eyes. “But sometimes—especially for a Warlord Prince who is so strong, who stands so deep in the abyss—you look at the woman who pulls at you and the need to possess is overwhelming.”

Saetan rubbed his hands together, then looked at the Black-Jeweled ring on his right hand. “We’re guests most of the time and on our best behavior because of that. We come to our lover’s bed, and even if we share that bed ninety-nine nights out of a hundred, it’s still
her
bed. Our beds are for sleep, for rest, for solitude. But the rare times when we take a woman into our bed, it’s different. It feels different. No matter how gentle you are, how careful, it isn’t lovemaking. It’s not even sex. It’s possession. Her body belongs to you for that night, and you play with it. You bring her to a climax—or you deny her that completion. For a little while.”

He was hearing a description of the Sadist in his mildest form. He was hearing a description of what he’d done last night. And he was hearing something else.