The men noticed, but they didn’t act differently toward the Prince. They were just . . . watchful. The Prince knew. Of course he knew. But, like Lucivar and Chaosti, he pretended not to notice, pretended that everything was the way it always was between them.
His father had said Uncle Daemon felt that way because he was still rising from the healing time, still fitting back into his skin. And that made sense, because Uncle Daemon often joined them for dinner on his last evening at the Keep, and Daemonar had never sensed that strangeness. A difference of a few hours, no more than that, but enough time for his uncle to be—
The door opened and someone walked into the sitting room. Daemonar looked up.
The Warlord Prince who looked at him, whose mouth curved in a sweetly murderous smile, wore his uncle’s face but wasn’t his uncle. He knew that with everything in him.
Remember your lessons. Remember. Remember.
Daemonar swallowed hard to keep fear, and his midday meal, from rising. “Good afternoon, Prince. I’m here for my lesson with the Lady.”
No response. No reply. Just that smile and gold eyes that looked glazed and sleepy.
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. The Prince was riding the killing edge—and he was the target.
He wanted to uncross his legs in order to have some chance of moving when the strike came. Because it was going to come. He had no doubts about that. But he knew it would come faster if he made any kind of move.
The Prince took another step into the room. Power—and something else, something more and just as deadly—washed over Daemonar. Sadi wore nothing above his waist except the pendant that held his Black Jewel. A solid body with defined muscles. Not bulky, more . . . sculpted.
Daemonar felt his face heat. Why would he think such a thing about his uncle? It was true, but why would he think it?
And the scars on the right biceps. Thin white ridges marking the golden brown skin.
He’d seen those white ridges plenty of times, but today, here and now, he understood that Witch’s claws had given Sadi those scars.
The Prince—no, that was too tame a word for the man who glided across the room toward him—stared at him in a way that made his heart beat too fast, made fear threaten to swallow sense. He wanted to run, but if he moved now, he wouldn’t survive long enough to take another breath, to feel his heart take one more beat.
“Prince.” Witch’s midnight voice was equal parts threat and command.
Sadi—or whoever lived inside that skin right now—stopped moving, but his eyes and rage remained focused on Daemonar.
Witch appeared beside Sadi. “You gave me your word, Daemon. Your word.”
The Prince turned his head just enough to focus those glazed eyes on her—and he snarled.
“He is mine, Prince, as you are mine.”
Sadi snarled again. Louder.
Witch waved a hand as if to erase the words. “Not exactly as you are mine, but he is mine as his father is mine. You know this, Daemon. You know this.”
Silence. Daemonar held his breath. Whatever discussion was going on between Sadi and Witch was taking place on a private psychic thread, but whatever was said had Sadi turning fully to face her, had Witch resting her hand over his heart, her claws barely pricking the skin.
Sadi breathed in. Breathed out. And said, “Your will is my life.”
“Yes,” Witch replied softly. “And I am asking you to obey my will.”
Sadi hesitated, as if he wanted to turn once more to the other male in the room. Then he walked out of the sitting room.
Moments later, Daemonar heard another door close.
“Come on, boyo, you have to go.” Witch closed a hand around his arm and hauled him to his feet.
Daemonar almost dropped the book. Just managed to close it without tearing any pages. “But . . . our lesson.”
“Not today.” She pulled him toward the door.
“Auntie J.! The book!”
“Take it home with you.”
The words shocked him enough that he stopped resisting and kept pace with her. Take the book out of the Keep? A book Geoffrey had barely allowed to leave the library?
“You can’t be here today,” Witch said. “Chaosti will stay with you until your father arrives to escort you home.”
His father here at the Keep when Uncle Daemon was acting so strange? No.
“I can go home by myself,” he said.
“Not today.” She sounded grim—and worried.
Prince Chaosti stood on the other side of the metal gate that separated Witch’s private area from the rest of the Keep.
“Do you know?” Chaosti asked softly.
“Not yet,” she replied. She looked at the big sitting room that was closest to the gate. “But I will.”
She gave Daemonar’s arm a light squeeze. “Wait for your father, boyo.”
Daemonar looked back in the direction of the Queen’s and Consort’s suites. “Will you be safe, Auntie J.?”
She smiled. “I’ll be safe.” She took a step back—and faded away.
“Come, little Brother,” Chaosti said. “Give Sadi a chance to regain control.”
As soon as Daemonar walked past the metal gate, he felt the other familiar presence. “What is Tersa doing here?”
“I think that is a question between Tersa and the Queen,” Chaosti replied.
“What if Uncle Daemon . . . ?”
“Draca will look after Tersa.” Chaosti tapped the top of the book. “What have you got there?”
“A book I was reading. Auntie J. said I could take it home.” He was sure she meant he could borrow it, not keep it. He’d take extra care with it too. Maybe Geoffrey would let him borrow other books if he took extra care with this one.
Chaosti sat with him for an hour, discussing some of the scenarios, before his father arrived. Lucivar stared at him for a long moment. Just stared.
“Father?” Wondering if he had done something wrong, Daemonar waited.
“This was unusual,” Chaosti said quietly. “Unforeseen.”
“But it can happen again,” Lucivar said.
“Yes, it can happen again. He is who, and what, he is.”
Lucivar nodded. Then he held out a hand. “Time to go, boyo.”
“Are we going home?” Daemonar asked. Something about the look on his father’s face—a look that might be fear.
Lucivar didn’t reply, just kept moving until they walked out of the Keep and stood in one of the open areas where Coaches carrying visitors and scholars could land.
“Are we going home?” Daemonar asked again.
Lucivar shook his head. “We’ll go to the hunting eyrie for a little while. This is a private talk. Just you and me.” He took a deep breath, let it out in a shuddering sigh. “There are things you need to know about your uncle Daemon.”
Calm and once more in control, Daemon stood on the flagstones outside of Lucivar’s home and waited to see if the door would open. Lucivar knew he was there. If his brother chose to shut him out tonight, he would accept it.
“He is part of it! I saw that much. I know that much!”
“Maybe,” Witch had replied when his rage had been purged enough that he could speak—and listen. “Or maybe he is part of it because he is a weapon that fits my hand. Like you, Prince.”
Queen’s weapon. Like him. Like Lucivar. Power and temper shaped to do a Queen’s will.
She said he hadn’t hurt the boy. He wanted to believe that. Whether or not the door to the eyrie opened or remained closed would tell him if she was right.
The door opened. Lucivar stood there, watching him.