“Before what?”
Surreal smiled and leaned closer. “The second thing: where can I find that Warlord?”
An art exhibition. People milling around, distracted by the art—and more distracted by noticing who was noticing them attending the exhibition. The Warlord was there, showing everyone how attentive he was to the Lady he’d recently married.
Surreal strolled through the crowd, stopping to look at a painting here, a fired pot there. The spell she had crafted was ready, primed for release.
Bloodless castration. Not as much fun as the other way but useful when it needed to be done neatly. And something that might not be detected for years, since it didn’t take anything away from a man except his ability to sire children.
Jaenelle Angelline had taught her that piece of Craft.
So simple, really. Looking away as if distracted when the Warlord walked toward her. Her shoulder bumping into his hard enough for anyone looking to think she’d lost her balance. Her hand brushing against his cock and balls for just a moment. Just long enough to release the spell.
“What do you think you’re doing?” the Warlord said, sounding outraged. “Have you forgotten who you are?”
The question made her smile. “Actually, sugar, I finally remembered.”
THIRTY-SEVEN
Lucivar landed on the street in a Rihland town, studied the clusters of people standing on the opposite side of the street, then looked at the beautiful man in the perfectly tailored suit waiting for him in front of a shop.
“What brings you here?” he asked.
“Followed a side trail,” Daemon replied. “It led me here.”
“This is the last one on my list.”
“Then this is the last one.” Daemon used Craft to open the shop’s door. “After—”
Daemon’s power broke the aural shield around the shop, revealing the voices and the struggle going on inside.
“Do it!” a female voice screamed. “If you loved me, you would do it!”
“Graham! Don’t. Please don’t.” Another female voice, crying, pleading.
A male voice, angry and anguished. “Bekka! I can’t stop. . . . I have to prove I . . . Get out of here before I hurt you!”
“Do it!” the first female screamed again. “Kill her!”
Wrapping himself in a skintight Red shield, Lucivar strode into the shop, Daemon right behind him.
One young woman trapped between a counter and a young Warlord with a knife. Three other young women—aristos by the look of their clothes. Two of them watched with avid cruelty while the third kept screaming, “If you loved me, you would kill her!”
“Bekka!” the young Warlord cried. “I love Bekka!”
٭I’ll take him,٭ Daemon said. ٭You protect the girl he’s threatening and keep those bitches in the shop.٭
Lucivar formed an Ebon-gray shield around the shop, locking the building. A heartbeat later, Daemon’s unleashed sexual heat hit everyone as he glided over to the Warlord. One of his hands closed over the hand holding the knife. His other hand curled around the Warlord’s throat, pulling the youngster close enough to be swamped with a need that would go unfulfilled—if the youngster was lucky.
Gritting his teeth against his own response to the heat, Lucivar pulled the girl—Bekka—out of reach of the knife. Scared. Shaking. But no injuries. He put a shield around her, partly as protection and partly to keep her from doing anything that might piss him off more than he already was.
“Show me,” Daemon whispered, his lips close to the Warlord’s ear. “Tell me.”
Graham turned his head slightly, revealing the side of his face that had been maimed by something—or someone.
The three bitches had been so focused on Graham and Bekka—and then pulled into lust by Daemon’s overwhelming presence—they hadn’t noticed Lucivar. Now they did.
Two tried to run and slammed into the shield across the doorway. A flick of his Ebon-gray power drained their Jewels almost to the breaking point, assuring they weren’t going to do any damage to anyone—at least, not with Craft. Stunned, they collapsed to the floor and began to cry because the Warlord Prince was being mean.
That left the third bitch, the one who had been screaming at Graham.
Lucivar tightened the leash on his temper, fighting against the fury rising in him, which wanted to wash the walls with her blood. If this was as bad as he suspected . . .
Realizing her game was spoiled, the bitch lashed out with the power of her Summer-sky Jewel. Not at him. She wasn’t that stupid. No, she tried to strike Bekka.
Lucivar shaped another shield around Bekka a heartbeat before the bitch’s power struck. Years ago, Saetan had shown him how to add an extra bit of Craft to a defensive shield when drama was required. The clash of the witch’s power hitting the second Ebon-gray shield sounded like buildings exploding—a sure way to bring everyone who served the District Queen running to investigate.
Of course, they would be running right into him and Daemon. Wouldn’t that be a kick in the balls?
Before the aristo bitch could attempt some other trouble, he stepped close to her, called in his war blade, and held it a whisper away from the side of her face. “You want to be very careful about what you say or do. If I get upset, my hand could slip, and this blade is honed for war, so it would slice right through your jaw.”
“You’ll answer to my father for this,” she said, her haughty expression at odds with the fear in her voice. “He’s an important man, not some grubby . . .” Either she couldn’t think of a scathing enough insult or she’d finally noticed his Ebon-gray Jewel.
“Oh, I hope your father does show up. I have some things to say to him. None of them are good.”
Sensing another male presence behind a shielded door that, most likely, led to the back of the shop, and wondering who was hiding behind that door, Lucivar broke the shield and waited. Moments later, the door opened and an older man rushed into the front room.
“What do you want?” The older man’s voice trembled. “Hasn’t my son been hurt enough?”
“More than enough,” Lucivar agreed. “And that ends now. Lord Graham?”
“Sir?” the youngster said as Daemon released him and stepped back.
“Do you know the names of the men—or women—who gave you those scars? Am I right in assuming that was done to your face as punishment for not accommodating these Ladies in some way?”
“The aristos who did it will know I told you,” Graham said. “They’ll hurt my parents.” He glanced at the young woman wrapped in Lucivar’s shields. “They’ll hurt Bekka.”
“They won’t have time to hurt anyone,” Daemon crooned. “They’ll be dead by morning.”
Lucivar felt fear spike through the aristo women. He felt relief flood the two men who didn’t belong to that social class. That told him he’d postponed this day too long.
Everything has a price.
٭Prick?٭ Daemon glided to the door and studied the crowd. ٭The Master of the Guard has shown up with what looks like all the Queen’s guards. He seems agitated.٭
٭Let the fool come in,٭ Lucivar said, dropping the Ebon-gray shield around the shop.
Only the Master entered the shop. The guards must have looked at Daemon’s glazed gold eyes and the cold, sweet smile and prudently decided not to provoke a Warlord Prince who was a heartbeat away from the killing edge.
Lucivar held the war blade steady against the bitch’s face. He waited a moment to give the Master a chance to realize who he was. What he was. “You know this bitch?”