He choked.
“. . . or if they don’t want to get into trouble for holding hands and brushing each other’s hair. I think Jaenelle would tell you that this is the moment when you could lose your sister’s trust, and you have to decide if this is so important to you that you’ll step away from Titian.”
“I’m not stepping away,” Daemonar snarled. “But she’ll know that I’m not easy about this. Not yet, anyway.”
Beron called in two ticket-sized pieces of heavy paper and set them on the table. “An art exhibit that is showcasing new work but also is displaying some very old, very rare paintings. Each ticket is for one person and an escort. If you want to let Titian know you’re standing with her, even if you don’t understand her choices—yet—you’ll invite her and Zoey to attend this exclusive preview.”
“Me go to an art show? I’d rather be stabbed with a fork.”
“I know. So does Titian. That’s why the invitation will mean a lot.”
Daemonar drank his tea. He could go up to the Keep and ask Auntie J. what she thought. He could do that. But he figured her advice wouldn’t differ from Beron’s.
Then he looked at the tickets. Had to be expensive if they were for an exclusive preview. “Who were you going to take to this preview? You wouldn’t have bought the tickets on the chance that you’d need them.”
“Who doesn’t matter,” Beron replied with a trace of bitterness. “It turned out she had targeted me as a way to get close enough to rub up against other members of the family.”
For a moment, Daemonar forgot to breathe. “Hell’s fire, Uncle Daemon would have killed her.”
Beron nodded. “Best if we keep that between us, all right?”
“All right.” He sighed. “I’ll invite Titian and Zoey, but . . .” He wasn’t going to beg. He wasn’t.
Beron laughed softly. “I do want to see that exhibit, so I will stand as the other escort.”
“Thank the Darkness.”
Beron vanished the tickets and took the mugs to the sink. “Go home, cousin. Make peace with your uncle and get some sleep.”
Good advice. He hoped Uncle Daemon would be in the mood for peace.
Daemonar returned before Helton locked up for the night. At least the boy had that much sense.
What surprised Daemon was the tentative rap on the study door. “Come in.”
Daemonar stepped inside and closed the door, but kept the room’s length between them.
Not drunk, Daemon decided, and not in a fighting mood.
“Zoey’s a Queen,” Daemonar said.
“She is,” Daemon agreed.
“A Queen’s triangle is made up of three males to balance the power between genders—Steward, Master of the Guard, and Consort.”
“Or First Escort. But, yes, that is the structure of a court, and it does not, cannot, change.”
“What happens to Titian when Zoey sets up her court?”
Daemon closed his book and set it aside. “There are a lot of years between now and the day when Zoey forms an official court. Some Queens have a Consort and a husband who are not the same man. Some Queens have a First Escort whose duty ends at the bedroom door, and a husband whose relationship with her is personal and outside of the court.” He sighed. “I don’t know what will happen, boyo. They’re very young. First love doesn’t always mean forever love.”
Daemonar’s wings opened and closed, slight movements that usually meant he was agitated about something. “Beron and I are going to take Titian and Zoey to an exclusive art exhibit.”
Daemon smiled—and saw his nephew shiver. “Beron finally realized the bitch was using him to get her feet under the SaDiablo table?”
“It wasn’t her feet she wanted under something,” Daemonar muttered.
“I see,” Daemon said too softly.
“I didn’t mean . . .”
The men in the family needed to be able to talk to one another, needed to be able to confide in one another. He wouldn’t damage the strength of the bond between Daemonar and Beron by going after the bitch.
But the High Lord of Hell wouldn’t forget about her either, and someday she and he would have a little chat.
“Lucivar will be here in a couple of days.”
“Did you tell him?” Daemonar asked.
“I told him. He didn’t sound impressed.”
Daemonar laughed reluctantly. “Since he can’t promise to rip off a cock and shove it down the offender’s throat, what do you suppose he’ll use as a threat?”
Daemon pushed out of the chair and walked to the door, then waited for Daemonar to open it before saying, “Knowing your father, I’m sure he’ll think of something.”
TWENTY-THREE
Surreal turned her cup so that the handle faced her left hand. She lowered her right hand to her lap and called in her sight-shielded stiletto. Whoever was approaching her table at this coffee shop was making considerable effort to avoid attracting attention.
In her experience, sneaky usually equaled enemy.
She created a tight Gray shield around herself, sipped her coffee, and waited.
The person who slipped into the chair opposite hers was female, felt like an Opal Jewel—and was sight-shielded.
An Opal aural shield went up around the table, keeping anything that was said private.
“I heard you’ve been asking about girls who were broken on their Virgin Night,” the woman said.
The voice had a husky, sexual allure, but Surreal had the impression the speaker was young enough not to have made the Offering to the Darkness. Which made the Opal the speaker’s Birthright Jewel. And that made her unknown visitor a potentially powerful witch when she reached her mature strength.
“You have a problem with that, sugar?” Surreal kept her face turned away from the rest of the room. The Blood in the coffee shop would detect the aural shield and might already know the identity of the sight-shielded witch, but there was no reason to draw more attention to this chat than necessary.
“I’ve made some discreet inquiries and heard that you established a place, a sanctuary, where young women—witches—can go after their lives have been . . . damaged.”
The inquiries must have been very discreet if the people who worked at the sanctuary or on the nearby SaDiablo estate hadn’t realized someone was sniffing around.
“I repeat,” Surreal said. “You have a problem with that?”
“No. I have someone I’d like you to consider if there is room for another person.”
“I’m listening.”
“She’s a friend of mine. She’s not aristo or a Sister of the Hourglass . . .”
That told Surreal the speaker was both.
“. . . but she would have been a strong witch—and she was, and is, a person with a strong moral code.”
Mother Night. “She was deliberately broken?”
“Yes. ‘The girl lusted for a cock. What was the boy to do?’”
“Did she lust for that particular cock?”
The speaker made a disparaging sound. “The first time he suggested she have some fun under him, she said no, thank you. Then she said no, loudly and in front of witnesses. And then . . .”
A flash of anger rattled the dishes on the table before the speaker regained control. “And then several of us were invited to an outdoor party, hosted by the aristo family whose son didn’t want to keep his cock behind his zipper. My friend didn’t want to go—there was something odd about her being invited in the first place—but her father insisted.”