“Thank you, Beale. Could you put these in Prince Sadi’s study?” Daemonar handed the papers containing Grizande’s and Jaalan’s bloodlines to the butler. Then he smiled at the girl as if he wasn’t sharply aware that her Jewel was darker than his and a fight could leave both of them injured—or dead. “Shall we go up?”
She nodded and started to follow him, then looked back at the kitten, who seemed attached to the floor. When Liath gave the tiger a nudge, Jaalan leaped up and the two kindred led the way to the square of guest rooms that were used for people who weren’t given access to the rest of the Hall.
“Your . . . guests?” Grizande sounded puzzled. Unsure.
Something about the way she said words gave him the impression she didn’t know much of the common tongue that was spoken by the Blood throughout the Realm, and that what she did know had been learned recently.
“Prince Sadi is my uncle. This is his home. He’s not here this evening, so I am standing in his place, and that makes you and Jaalan my guests.”
“That . . . other?” Wariness. Some fear, despite the Jewels she wore.
What would make a Sapphire-Jeweled witch afraid of an Opal-Jeweled Queen?
“Lady Zoela lives here now. She’s a Queen in training.”
Grizande stopped moving. The look in her green eyes reminded him of a warrior searching for an enemy before he stepped into a fight—or deliberately walked into an ambush in order to flush out his enemies. Watching her, he guessed she was a fighter like the Dea al Mon more than an Eyrien—and he wondered how much she already knew about fighting with a knife, if she used a knife instead of her claws.
“More . . .” She said a word in her own language.
“Five Queens live here, plus some Healers, Black Widows, and witches,” Daemonar said. “There are also Warlord Princes, Princes, and Warlords. We’re all here to study Craft and Protocol from Prince Sadi and to learn the workings of a court.”
“He is . . . teacher?”
Oh, that sparked her interest.
“He is.” When he continued toward the sitting room where a meal had been laid out, she matched him stride for stride, whatever concern she had about being in a place that contained Queens momentarily forgotten.
Unhappy sounds came from the sitting room. Daemonar lengthened his stride and wrapped a tight Green shield around himself. Not because he thought he would need it but because he didn’t want to get his ass kicked for not doing it.
He stopped a few steps into the room.
Food on the table. A Green shield around the table. One stern and growling Sceltie Warlord Prince—and one grumbling kitten standing on his hind legs to see the food out of his reach.
“Jaalan is hungry,” Grizande said softly. Apologetically. As if there was some shame attached to the young tiger’s hunger.
So are you, Daemonar thought as he studied her. Both of them were exhausted and half-starved. What had it cost Grizande to get herself and Jaalan here? She said she had come to the Hall for help, for safety, but why bring the tiger?
“Over here,” he said, leading her to a door.
She followed him, casting glances at the food on the table.
How to ask questions without making her feel inferior? “Do you know this kind of plumbing?” he asked when he led her into the bathroom adjoining the sitting room. When she hesitated, he turned the water taps on the sink. “Hot water and cold water.” He turned those off and lifted the toilet lid. “Toilet for pee and . . .” If she’d been male, he wouldn’t have hesitated to talk about bodily functions, but he wasn’t sure if that was considered taboo among her people.
Grizande’s lips twitched. “Pee and other.”
Daemonar grinned. “Yeah. That.” He stepped out of the bathroom. “We’ll have something to eat when you’re ready.”
As he approached the table, the kitten looked more than willing to pounce on him to convince him to give up some of the food. Until Liath growled again. The kitten was bigger than the Sceltie, but that didn’t seem to matter. As far as Jaalan was concerned, Liath was in charge—of all of them.
*Beale?* Daemonar called on a psychic thread.
*Prince? Do you need assistance?*
*No, we’re fine for now. But I think Lady Nadene should take a look at our guests if you can think of a way to make that happen without causing distress.*
*We can do that,* Beale replied.
Daemonar closed his eyes. Quiet. Confident. Easy. He swallowed the emotions churning inside him, leashed the instincts that demanded he give more forceful help to this female who needed the safety he—and Beale—could provide. What he felt didn’t matter. Not right now.
Grizande came out of the bathroom. Daemonar hadn’t heard the toilet flush, so he wasn’t sure if she hadn’t used it or didn’t know how to flush the waste. He’d let Helene know.
“Thanks, Liath,” he said. “You can drop the shield now.”
He’d been prepared for the kitten’s leap to grab some food, but Liath was faster. The kitten hung in the air before being set down near the table.
Grizande said something that sounded like a scold, but it was the sadness under that scold that scraped at Daemonar.
“I am . . . sorry,” she said as she approached the table.
“No need to be,” he replied as he poured water into a shallow bowl and set it on the floor for the kindred dog and kitten. “I have a little brother who does much the same thing.”
She smiled and took a seat.
Daemonar eyed the food and realized the bowl of raw meat wasn’t meant for him and Grizande. At least he assumed it wasn’t. Taking a small plate, he filled it with a quarter of the chunks of raw meat and used Craft to set it on the floor near the table.
Liath growled. Jaalan didn’t make any move toward the dish, but he did make sounds that Daemonar figured would have kicked the instincts of an adult tiger into giving up some food. Too bad the kitten was dealing with a Sceltie.
Liath approached the dish, carefully sniffed the meat, took one chunk, then stepped back—a signal for the kitten to eat. The meat was gone in seconds.
Daemonar moved the roasted chicken within Grizande’s reach. She ripped off a whole leg with a speed that startled him because the move looked . . . and felt . . . feral. And desperate.
“Easy,” he said, placing his hand over hers.
She immediately dropped the chicken leg and looked . . . ashamed?
“You can have as much food as you want,” he said gently, “but I can tell you from experience that if you eat too fast when you’re empty, you’ll end up with a bellyache.” He released her hand, then tore off the other chicken leg and set it on his plate.
“You have been hunger?” She sounded like she didn’t quite believe him.
He thought for a moment before nodding. “Because I was focused on boy things and food wasn’t immediately available, not because there wasn’t any. So I came home very hungry, ate too fast—and learned about bellyaches.”
She bit into the thigh, and he could see the effort it took for her not to gulp down the meat as fast as possible. Had speed been essential to getting any food because there was competition for what was available—or because there was fear that it might be taken away?
Who was this girl who could trace her bloodline back to Grizande and Elan and yet arrived at the Hall frightened and starving?
She took another bite. Chewed. Swallowed. “Boy things?”
He grinned. “My grandmother’s term for all the objects and adventures that male children find fascinating.”
Liath and Jaalan’s plate, licked clean, rose up to the height of the table.