Daemonar blew out a breath and vanished the club. Time to go back to his own room and . . .
Another gust of wind—and the nearest window began a snarling roar of sound, savage and . . . Eyrien. The window was swearing in Eyrien. One voice? Two?
What in the name of Hell?
An Eyrien war cry sounded as the wind rattled the window.
It made no sense. There was no reason to be afraid of a window. And yet the sound made his skin crawl. It was too strange and unnerving for him to face alone at this time of night. So Daemonar Yaslana did the only sensible thing to do—he ran to the suite of rooms where Uncle Daemon now resided and pounded on the bedroom door.
The door swung open. Daemonar wasn’t sure if he was looking at the High Lord of Hell or the Sadist—or if this was Uncle Daemon, just sleepy and pissed off at being jolted awake. No matter which aspect of Sadi had opened the door, at least the man was wearing silk pajama bottoms and wouldn’t go charging through the Hall showing off his male pride the way Lucivar would have done.
“Something weird is happening in one of the corridors,” Daemonar said. “Seriously weird.”
Those glazed gold eyes studied him before Sadi said, “Show me.”
Daemonar didn’t worry about going too fast. Daemon might not look like he moved quickly most of the time, but he had a gliding stride that covered a lot of ground when he wanted to get somewhere.
When they reached the corner and would turn into the corridor with that window, Daemonar held up a hand—and didn’t appreciate until Sadi stopped that he’d just given a command to a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince.
“It’s a window in this corridor,” Daemonar whispered. Lowering his hand, he called in his Eyrien club for the second time. Then he took a breath, wrapped a Green shield around himself, and turned into that corridor, aware of Daemon, wrapped in a Red shield, moving a step behind him and a long step to the side. Fighting room.
He nodded at the window. “This one. I heard muttering at first; then when a gust of wind rattled the frame . . .”
Daemon called in one of his gold and ruby cuff links and held it out.
“Uncle Daemon, I don’t think—”
A gust of wind shook the windows and that savage voice—voices?—rumbled and roared out language that might have made Daemonar blush if he hadn’t felt so threatened.
The wind faded. The voices muttered for a few moments longer before they, too, faded.
Daemonar glanced at Uncle Daemon, who stared at the window and looked like someone had dropped him into a mountain lake in the middle of winter.
“Sir?”
No response.
“Uncle Daemon?”
He felt a flutter of Red power before Daemon vanished the cuff link.
“There’s a chip of my Birthright Red Jewel under the ruby,” Daemon said. “It holds an auditory spell that retains conversations. I’ve found it very useful over the years when I didn’t want to rely on my memory for what was said at an official meeting.”
“So you can replay . . . that?” Daemonar tipped his head toward the window.
Daemon nodded. “I want Lucivar to hear this, and there’s no guarantee we’ll have gusts of wind when we need them.”
“You’d just need to rattle the window frame. Wouldn’t you?”
“Maybe. Depends on if specific conditions have to be present for this bit of Craft to manifest.”
Daemonar stared at the window. “Is it just Craft?”
Instead of answering, Daemon raised his right hand and created a Black shield at one end of the corridor. “Let’s go.” When they reached the corner, he created a second Black shield. Then he nodded. “That will keep anyone else from stumbling across whatever this is.”
They headed back to their suites.
“Just out of curiosity, what were you doing in that part of the Hall at this time of night?” Daemon asked.
“Walking. Couldn’t sleep.”
Daemon said nothing for a minute. “Troubled by hypothetical questions?”
Daemonar winced. “I didn’t want the girls to get into trouble, but I wasn’t going to let them hide it from you.”
“Would they have tried to hide it?”
Spoken mildly, but not an idle question.
“I think some of the girls were afraid of being expelled. They would have stood up eventually, but it would have taken a while for them to work up the courage. Zoey and Titian would have dithered a bit, but they would have strapped steel to their spines and told you what they had done before the evening meal.” He knew from experience that sitting at a table for a meal with his uncle or father—or worse, both of them—when you’d done something wrong or stupid and hadn’t told anyone was a lesson in how excruciating silence could be when you were certain they knew what you’d done and were waiting with a predator’s patience for you to tell them.
Zoey and Titian would never have gotten through a meal with Uncle Daemon if they’d tried to hide that a spell had gone wrong. And Uncle Daemon would not have been happy about sitting at a table with weeping girls once they felt the weight of his cold displeasure. Oh, he would have sat there, but he wouldn’t have been happy about it.
“But you were the one who entered my study to tell me that something happened,” Daemon said.
“I’m the oldest, and I have the most experience with getting into trouble.” He stared at the wall. “But saying it was hypothetical felt like a lie.”
Daemon laughed softly. “Having grown up with Lucivar, I can see how it could feel that way, but I’d bet even your father posed a few hypothetical questions when Jaenelle and the coven lived here. That’s not a lie, boyo. That’s love.” He paused, then added, “Cherish and protect, but don’t be too much of a shield. Learn from my mistake. Have their backs, yes, but also insist that the girls strap on that steel and be the ones to face me—and accept the consequences of their own actions.”
“Yes, sir.”
Daemon wrapped a hand around the back of Daemonar’s neck, then kissed his forehead. “Get some sleep, boyo.”
“Good night, Uncle Daemon.”
Daemon walked into his bedroom—and locked the door.
The High Lord’s square of rooms. Saetan had occupied that suite for centuries. Andulvar and Prothvar Yaslana had occupied suites that looked out over that courtyard. So had Saetan’s eldest son, Mephis SaDiablo. Now it was off-limits to everyone because Daemon used that courtyard as a place to drain some of his Black power, as well as the overwhelming sexual heat that was part of the price he paid for being a Warlord Prince who wore the Black.
Across from the High Lord’s square was the Queen’s square. The rooms Jaenelle Angelline and Daemon Sadi had occupied when Jaenelle had been alive were also off-limits, as was the suite that Lady Karla had occupied since the summer that Witch’s coven had first come to the Hall. Other suites in that courtyard were now assigned to some of the girls who had been at the Hall when the coven of malice had attacked, including Zoey, Titian, Jhett, and Arlene. They were still skittish, and being so close to the Black was the only reason any of them could sleep.
The next square of suites was reserved for the most trusted of those who served, a group that included Lord Holt, Lord Weston, Prince Raine, Prince Chaosti when he visited the Hall—and Daemonar. Another difference between him and the other boys.
The rest of the youngsters were in squares that were within easy reach of the protectors but not as close to Uncle Daemon.
Feeling easier about the hypothetical hole in the wall—which was going to take more work to fix than he’d realized—and a little easier generally now that he wasn’t the only one who had heard that damn swearing window, Daemonar went to his suite, stretched out on his bed, and was asleep in minutes.