Shalador's Lady (41 page)

Damned hard to insist that you were a “former” ruler when a newly met Warlord Prince recognized a bond with you that could hold him.

When Gray had recognized her as the Queen, Jaenelle had slid around facing the truth that she wasn’t a former anything by arguing that Gray was confused by his developing sense of being a Warlord Prince. But there was nothing wrong with Ranon that she could use as an excuse.

Which made this particular meeting even more interesting.

“What Circle?” Khary finally asked.

“Second,” Jaenelle replied.

Meaning, if the Dark Court still officially existed, Ranon would have been accepted into the Second Circle.

Not as intimate a companion as someone in the First Circle, but those who served in the Second were still close enough—and trusted enough—for confidential assignments and direct service to the Queen.

“And Gray?” Daemon asked.

“Second Circle,” she said.

Anger still smeared the room, but it no longer had heat or teeth.

“So that’s it then,” Aaron said.

“Not quite. I received this letter from Cassidy a couple of days ago, before the attempted abduction,”

Jaenelle said. She called in another letter and handed it to Khary.

By the time Khary got halfway through the first page, his mouth was hanging open. “Payment for work?

They’re getting paid to herd sheep?”

“Three coppers a day,” Jaenelle said cheerfully. “Wynne and Duffy are also maintaining the spells on the cold boxes and hot water tanks for the landen community and get three coppers a week for each household.”

Since Khary seemed frozen, Aaron snagged the second page. “Oh, Mother Night. Two of them are working in a children’s play area.”

Sabrina snorted, then had to call in a handkerchief to blow her nose.

Morghann twisted in her chair so she could read the other side of the page. “They call Lloyd and Kief the silver twins. And the boys are working in the stables. That’s good. They like horses.”

“I guess I understand the Scelties wanting to learn about being paid for work, but what are they going to do with the money?” Daemon said. “Save up their coppers to buy their own little steading and a small flock of sheep?”

Morghann and Jaenelle looked at Daemon. Just looked at him. And then they smiled.

Lucivar caught Khary before he landed on the floor, and Saetan watched Daemon—his brilliant, lethal son

—turn pale. Probably at the thought of someday having to negotiate a business deal with a Sceltie.

*Coward,* Saetan said on a Black spear thread.

Daemon gave him a sideways look.

“It’s not that bizarre,” Jaenelle said. “Ladvarian and I own the little cottage and acreage where he trains other Scelties.”

“What?” Khary yelped.

“What?” Daemon whispered.

Jaenelle looked at Khary. “I thought you knew that. Morghann, didn’t you know that?”

“I did, yes,” Morghann replied. “But it seemed best not to mention that bit of paperwork.”

Jaenelle patted Daemon’s thigh. “Ladvarian and I have owned that property since before you and I got married, so I never thought to mention it. Besides, having that place is so much better than having a dozen Scelties living with us whenever we’re in Maghre.”

“Yes, that’s so much better.” Daemon looked a little woozy.

“The relationship between Scelties and humans is too well established in Scelt,” Morghann said. “And not all Scelties want to change the relationship they already have with humans. But in a new land, there would be opportunities the Scelties couldn’t explore as easily here.”

Everyone looked around the room without quite looking at one another.

“Are we done?” Karla asked Jaenelle. “Because if we’re done, I’d like some help in figuring out how to turn a mauve cat back into a white cat.”

“Draca is serving a late supper in about an hour,” Saetan said.

“That should be enough time,” Jaenelle said.

For what? Saetan wondered. But it wasn’t a question he would ask because his darling girls might tell him.

The Ladies left the room, leaving the men to collapse into chairs, not sure if they should be scared or pissed off, or should laugh like fools.

The room held nothing but a blissful, and exhausted, silence for several minutes.

“Can you stay for supper?” Daemon asked Lucivar.

“No choice,” Lucivar growled. “Marian said if I want to stay married, I’m going to stay out for the whole evening.”

“You have been a bit too possessive lately.”

“Maybe. She says she’s fine.”

“What does the Healer say?”

“Nurian also says Marian is fine, so she’s fine. Everyone is supposed to be fine. Well, I’m not fine. She scared the shit out of me with that miscarriage.” Lucivar snarled. “Next thing she’ll be wanting sex again.”

“They do that,” Aaron said sympathetically while Khary nodded. “They do.”

“Well, then . . .” Saetan began.

Bang!

They all straightened up and looked toward the door.

“What was that?” Daemon asked.

“Sounded like something blew up,” Lucivar replied. “What kind of spell were the girls trying to fix?”

They all looked at him.

“No,” Saetan said firmly. “If you want to find out, you go ahead. I am not leaving this room.”

The other four men looked at one another.

Daemon held out his hand. “We’ve got some time before supper. Let me see that letter again.”

TERREILLE

Having exhausted his patience for card playing, Theran left Kermilla sulking over a hand of solitaire and noticed the Sceltie standing perfectly still near the parlor door.

He moved toward the dog. “Vae?”

No, not Vae. Same coloring but different markings, and a sense of maturity—and power.

He saw the Red Jewel at the same time Kermilla spotted the dog and hurried toward him, clapping her hands in delight.

“Oh, Theran. You got me a Sceltie.”

She took another step. The dog bared his teeth and snarled.

Kermilla shook her finger. “Bad dog!”

Something more than the Sceltie snarled, and the sound filled the room.

*I am Lord Ladvarian,* the Sceltie said, staring at Kermilla. *This is Prince Jaal.*

A large brown cat with black stripes suddenly appeared on Ladvarian’s right, dwarfing the Sceltie. If the cat had the strength that body implied, it could pull down a full-grown horse or cow without any trouble.

He didn’t want to think about what it could do to a man.

Then he noticed the Green Jewel around the cat’s neck and acknowledged the title his mind wanted to deny. Prince Jaal. A Warlord Prince who wore a Jewel equal to his own and had a body he couldn’t match for strength or speed.

*And this is Prince Kaelas,* Ladvarian said.

Theran’s bowels turned to water. The white cat now standing on Ladvarian’s left was huge. Even the striped cat looked small in comparison.

Worse, Kaelas wore a Red Jewel.

The Sceltie was focused on Kermilla. The cats were focused on him, and he knew, with absolute certainty, that if anything went wrong now, he had no chance of surviving.

*You hurt Khollie,* Ladvarian told Kermilla.

“No, I just—”

*When you hunt one kindred, you hunt all kindred. Remember that, because the next time you send a male to hunt down one of us, we will come hunting for you.* Ladvarian paused. *This is what Kaelas does to enemies of kindred.*

Theran felt a surge of power and realized a moment too late that Ladvarian had forced at least one of Kermilla’s inner barriers open, no doubt to show her exactly what that huge white cat could do.

She whimpered and her eyes widened. Then she bent over and vomited.

The dog, damn its heart, put up a shield to keep the kindred from getting splashed as Kermilla heaved, then heaved again.

Ladvarian looked at him. *You are not a friend.*

Beads of sweat popped out on his forehead. He’d stood on killing fields. He’d seen slaughter. But he was certain he had never seen anything that could equal what that white cat would do to a man.

And he was grateful he’d been spared seeing whatever memory had been forced upon Kermilla.

Ladvarian turned and trotted through the closed parlor door. Jaal followed him. When they were gone, that walking white death stared at him a moment longer—and disappeared.

Theran froze. Was Kaelas gone? Or was the cat standing there, sight shielded, waiting for him to move, to become prey?

No sound. Not even breathing. Nothing he could detect. Nothing.

Then the door began to open. Julien peeked into the room. “Prince Grayhaven?”

“How am I going to get it out?” Kermilla whimpered. “How am I going to stop seeing that?”

Theran didn’t move.

Julien pushed the door open and stepped into the room, a distasteful look on his face when he spotted the mess on the carpet. “Prince, I saw—” He gasped and leaped away from the door. “Something just brushed past me.”

It’s gone. Theran closed his eyes. Thank the Darkness, it’s gone.

“I don’t believe our guests will be back,” he said, and almost laughed at how calm he sounded. “I’ll escort the Lady to her room. Can you . . . ?”

Julien looked at the carpet and nodded. “If I can’t get it cleaned sufficiently, I’ll burn the damn thing.”

He put an arm around Kermilla and led her out of the room.

On another day, he would have voiced an opinion about a butler deciding whether or not to destroy a carpet he couldn’t afford to replace. Tonight he didn’t have enough balls left to argue with anyone.

He’d gotten the only warning he would ever get. If those three ever had a reason to come looking for him again, the only sounds he would hear were his own screams.

EBON ASKAVI

Daemon lay on his side, facing away from the rest of the bed. When he felt Jaenelle slip under the covers, he pressed his face into the pillow and began chanting silently, Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh.

If he started laughing again, she would kick his ass out of bed.

But, damn, it was hard not to laugh when his darling wife looked like a brightly colored, demented sheep.

Not that he would say that. He knew better. Lucivar didn’t, but he knew better.

Lucivar was sent home with a note from his father explaining to Marian why Lucivar had to go home before his sister, and Karla, killed him flatter than dead. Whatever that meant.

Jaenelle poked his back with a finger. “I’ll fix it.”

Don’t laugh, don’t laugh, don’t laugh. “I know you will.”

“Tomorrow Karla and I will figure out what went wrong, and we’ll fix it.”

“Uh-huh.” He tried to resist and couldn’t. Damn his curiosity, it was going to get him into trouble. But he rolled onto his back so he could look at her—and had to clench his teeth until he gained some control. “I was wondering . . .”

Her sapphire eyes narrowed.

He made a twirling motion with one finger. “How did your hair . . . ?” It wasn’t the splotches of bright pink, blue, and mauve in her golden hair that broke his control. It wasn’t even the streaks of green, which made no sense since they weren’t part of the original spell Karla was trying to fix. It was the fact that the colored hair had also corkscrewed and . . . sproinged . . . out from her head.

Hence Lucivar’s comment about demented sheep.

Laughter bubbled up. Threatened to spill out.

Jaenelle huffed and said something in the Old Tongue that was, no doubt, very rude. “Go to sleep. You’re not going to be good for anything else.”

He blinked. Blinked again. The laughter vanished. He looked at the silly little sheep sitting so foolishly close to him and another kind of amusement swelled inside him. And swelled a particular part of him.

“Was that a challenge?” he purred.

Her eyes widened. She shifted her hips away from him. “No.”

He sat up. “I think it was. I think—”

He pounced. Her squeak of surprise as he pinned her to the bed did all kinds of delightful things to the predatory side of his nature. Even better was the way her breath caught after he vanished her nightgown and used his teeth and tongue to give her breasts some lavish attention.

He closed his teeth over his favorite spot on her neck, followed by soft kisses.

“Don’t you know that laughter can be an aphrodisiac?” he whispered in her ear.

She shook her head. Brightly colored, corkscrew curls bounced against his nose.

Smiling he raised his head and looked at her. Nerves in those beautiful eyes. Nerves . . . and hot desire.

Mine.

“Then let me expand your education a little,” he purred.

She said nothing, so he sheathed himself inside her.

He expanded her education a whole lot more than a little, but by the time he was done, they were both too exhausted—and too satisfied—to care.

G
ray brushed one fingertip over the globe Tersa had given him.

This is where you are, she’d said.

Not whole. Not fully formed. Not who he could have been.

The fire dance celebrated the Shalador males’ sexual and emotional maturity—and acknowledged their willingness to accept adult responsibilities as well as adult pleasures. Would this dance really make a difference in the way Cassie saw him?

Would it make a difference in the way he saw himself?

When the time comes, accept the fire that lives within you.

Brushing a finger over the globe again, he thought, It’s time. Win or lose, it’s time.

He’d been twenty-two when he’d made the Offering to the Darkness. Something inside him had swelled and pushed at him, demanding release, demanding that he open himself to his mature potential. But he’d been too emotionally damaged to endure that grueling test of Self, and instead of embracing the dark glory that could have been his, he’d fled from it—and had ended up with a Purple Dusk Jewel that was a little darker than his Birthright Purple Dusk.

The Offering could be made only once, and what he might have been had been severed by his own fear and refusal to accept it.

He couldn’t reclaim the power that was lost forever, but maybe, with the fire dance, he could finally meet and embrace the man he should be.