“Now,” Witch said too sweetly, “explain why you were so careless with someone who belongs to me.”
Daemon walked into Daemonar’s room ahead of Lucivar, took one look at the agitated boy storming around the room and waving his arms, and stopped. Just stopped. And closed his eyes against the visual assault.
He stopped so fast, Lucivar walked into him, shoving him another step into the room before slamming to a stop.
“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said.
“Look at this!” Daemonar said indignantly. “Look!”
Daemon opened his eyes, but looked away from the boy. “Stand still,” he ordered.
“All I did—”
“Stand. Still. And stop moving your arms.”
Lucivar snapped out an order in Eyrien that finally pinned the boy’s feet to the floor. Although it was possible that Lucivar had used Craft to actually pin the boy’s boots to the floor.
Still feeling a bit queasy, Daemon cautiously approached his nephew, with Lucivar walking beside him.
“Well,” Daemon said, “it’s not blue.”
“Mother Night, boy, what did you do to get your auntie J. that pissed off at you?”
“I didn’t—” Daemonar started to wave his arms.
“Don’t move!” they shouted.
When Daemonar was young, he’d broken his arm in a fight, and Daemon had put a bright blue shield around the arm to keep it safe while the bone healed—and to be a constant, annoying reminder to his nephew that there were penalties for getting hurt.
Witch’s penalty was also coloring the shield around the boy’s forearm and ribs, but the multiple colors were beyond garish and they kept swirling around the shield, and whenever Daemonar waved his arm, the movement created an afterimage of color in the air that followed every up-and-down and side-to-side move. And on top of all of that, the damn shield sparkled.
Their Queen could not have picked a better punishment for a Warlord Prince Daemonar’s age.
“When you were young, you asked me what I had done to piss off Witch so much that she gave me the scars on my arm because you didn’t want to make her that angry with you.” Daemon shook his head slowly. “Boyo, that shield is as close as you could come to that level of pissing her off without earning scars.”
“She was using her too-sweet voice.” Daemonar looked at the swirly, sparkly shield. “You know?”
“Oh, yeah,” Lucivar said. “We know. The only thing worse than too sweet is ice.”
The boy nodded. “Didn’t get to ice.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Aren’t you supposed to wear a sling?” Daemon asked.
“Yeah, but . . .” Daemonar looked toward a chair.
The sling was solid black. Thank the Darkness for that.
Daemon fetched it, braced himself to come that close to all that color, and gently arranged the arm into the sling. “Wear it. It hides the colors.” He kissed his nephew’s forehead, then stepped back as Lucivar stepped forward—and the boy braced for whatever discipline would come.
“You know why the Queen did that, don’t you?” Lucivar asked.
Daemonar swallowed hard. “She said you’d explain it to me.”
“You knew there was trouble here—”
“But I didn’t!”
Lucivar stared at his son. “I beg your pardon? Titian called for help and—”
“I didn’t hear it,” Daemonar said hurriedly. “Two of Zoey’s friends were attacked at the school. Chaosti dealt with the attackers and told me he was bringing the girls to the town house, along with Prince Raine and some of the other boys and girls who might be in danger. And he confirmed that Krellis, Dhuran, and some of the others connected to the coven of malice had left the school. So I left Beron to help guard the town house and came here to warn Uncle Daemon that the boys had left the school, in case they were going to cause trouble.”
“But the prick-asses were already here, and you . . . what? Strolled in to see what they were doing?”
“I didn’t stroll in,” Daemonar said indignantly. “I came in shielded.”
“A single Green shield? With what weapon?”
The boy was starting to look a little gray. Daemon wasn’t sure if it was pain and fatigue or the realization that he was in trouble with his father.
“An Eyrien club.”
Lucivar nodded. “There were . . . what? Six? Seven of them? And you figured if you smacked a couple of them, the rest would back off?”
“Not exactly.”
Lucivar moved so fast, the boy had no time to evade. And the hand now gripping the back of the boy’s neck closed tight enough to make Daemonar flinch.
“Listen to me,” Lucivar said quietly. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t you ever again walk into a fight without shielding as if you’re going into battle. If you’d done that, you’d have bruises instead of broken bones. And when the odds are against you, don’t you ever again assume a few punches will settle things. You’re a Warlord Prince. You knew there was trouble before you walked through that door. You should have been armed and shielded and ready to step onto a killing field. And you should never have raised a weapon or engaged in that fight unless you were willing to be the only one who walked away from that field.”
“They weren’t trained warriors,” Daemonar said softly. “I didn’t think I would have to kill them.”
“They were trained well enough to hurt you before you recognized you were in a real fight. If I had been the first one through the door, I would have given the prick-asses one hit against my outer shield, just to be able to say they started the fight. And then I would have slaughtered them, regardless of their training or age, because my daughter needed me to reach her.”
“Titian?” Daemonar asked, his voice and eyes full of fear.
“She’ll be all right. She held on for as long as she could, but her shields finally broke, and she could have been killed.” Lucivar released Daemonar’s neck and stroked a hand over the boy’s hair. “In a situation like that, you do not have time for mercy.” He sighed and lightly tapped Daemonar’s left hand. “And that’s part of the reason your auntie J. gave you that . . . reminder.”
“Are you hungry?” Daemon asked.
Daemonar thought for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah. I could eat.”
Not surprising. The boy could always eat.
“I’ll have Beale bring a tray up for you.” He glanced at the small glass sitting on the table near a chair already nested with blankets and pillows. The Healer must have decided that would be a better place to rest while the boy’s ribs knit. “You didn’t drink the tonic to help with the pain.”
“Figured I should be awake when I got my ass kicked.”
Lucivar snorted a laugh. “Well, at least you’ve learned that much.”
Daemon sent the request for food to Beale. Then he and Lucivar got the boy settled in the chair, tucked in with blankets and warming spells.
The food arrived with a speed that made Daemon wonder if Beale—and Mrs. Beale—had anticipated the request. Either way, they left the boy busily consuming a variety of dishes that didn’t require the use of two hands.
“Witch couldn’t reach him, so she summoned us,” Lucivar said as they made their way back to the great hall.
“Sounds that way,” Daemon agreed. And if they hadn’t arrived when they did . . . “How did you get here from Ebon Rih so fast?”
“Rode black lightning.”
Daemon raised an eyebrow.
“It’s not something you want to know about when we’re completely sober.”