The Shadow Queen (21 page)

“No tools,” she muttered. “Need tools.”

She entered the big stone shed as quietly as possible, but the
clunk
of shovels was enough to have Gray pulling aside the old blanket that served as a door to his room.

“Cassidy?”

Couldn’t talk to him now. Couldn’t talk to anyone. “Go back to sleep, Gray. It’s early. I just needed to get some tools.” Shovel, hoe, rake, short-handled claw.

“You’re going to start weeding now?”

“Yes.” Hard to hold all of them. Easier to vanish them and call them back in when she got to the bed where she planned to work. But she didn’t want easier. Not today. Easier wouldn’t help her run from the words.

“Okay,” Gray said. “I’ll just—”

“No.” Cassidy tried to hold back anger, hurt, all the feelings that wanted to lash out at someone, anyone. “I need to work alone. You need to leave me alone.”

She ran from the shed and stopped at a part of the garden that looked like it hadn’t been touched in years. The ground here wasn’t soft like the bed she’d been working on with Gray. This ground would require muscle, sweat, even pain.

Nothing easy. Not here.

She had to move. Had to. Work. Move. Keep moving.
Don’t think.
Because if she let the words keep ripping at her heart, she’d simply lie down and not get up again.

Lucivar closed the door of the sitting room, took a moment to get a feel for what kind of temper he was about to meet, and didn’t like the answer. Didn’t like it at all.

“Draca told me you were here,” he said.

Daemon turned away from the windows. “I received the first report from Cassidy.”

“Is she doing all right?”

Daemon smiled dryly. “Hard to say. I think she was nervous about writing the report and was trying hard not to say anything negative, so it’s a bit lean on information. However, she did say that her Master of the Guard is a Sapphire-Jeweled Warlord Prince who is demon-dead. Since yarbarah isn’t a vintage known in Dena Nehele, she requested that some bottles be sent to her, paid for by the Queen’s gift.”

“You’re taking care of those bills, aren’t you?”

“I am. And since at least half of the yarbarah made in Kaeleer comes from our family’s vineyards, I decided to deliver a couple of cases personally.”

“You mean deliver them personally as far as the Keep here in Kaeleer. You can’t go to Terreille.”

Daemon stiffened. His eyes began to glaze. “Are you giving me orders, Prick?” he asked too softly.

“I’m telling you I’ll help you follow our Queen’s command, even if that means we’ll both need a Healer by the time the discussion is done.”

Daemon looked away. “Did Father tell you what happened?”

“He told me dealing with Theran Grayhaven opened up some old wounds,” Lucivar replied. Saetan had told him more than that, and what their father hadn’t said he could guess.

“Did he tell you I attacked Jaenelle?”

Mother Night.
Lucivar blew out a breath, not sure how to answer that.

“Did he tell you the Sadist was in bed with her?”

Oh, now.
That
he knew how to deal with. “The way I heard it,
Daemon
attacked Jaenelle while caught in an old, bad memory, and the Sadist enjoyed a snuggle that included a lot of moaning and several climaxes.”

“What?”

“The Sadist uses sex as a weapon,” Lucivar said, “but the Sadist rises out of temper, not desire. Usually.”

Daemon swayed—and Lucivar had the queer sense of circling around a memory . . . about another time and place when Daemon had come to him, already mentally fragile, and he had lashed out with words that had created a wound that would never fully heal. Even now.

“Old son, Daemon makes love to Jaenelle, but the Sadist dances with Witch,” Lucivar said gently. “Not out of hate or temper; he dances with her out of desire. But this time, for whatever reason, she didn’t make that transition with you—and it scared you.”

“Wouldn’t it scare you?”

“
Tch.
You scare the shit out of me when you’re the Sadist. But you don’t scare her. You don’t scare Jaenelle.”

“I did scare her.”

“Yeah, well, not as much as you think. And I figure scaring her once in a while helps her remember what you’re feeling when she does something that scares you. Which, you have to admit, she does on a regular basis.”

Daemon’s response was a brief, reluctant smile to acknowledge that particular truth. Then the smile faded. “Have you ever ... ?”

Pain there. Fear there. And too damn close to one of those emotional scars that created a line Daemon couldn’t cross anymore. Not without paying too high a price.

“Just say it,” Lucivar said.

“Do you ever feel possessive about Marian?”

Lucivar sat back on air, as if he were sitting on a stool. “Most of the time, I think of myself as Marian’s husband, or I think of her as an independent woman who lives with me and is the mother of my son. But when Marian and I first became lovers, she moved into my bedroom—and into my bed. So there’s not a night that goes by that I’m not saying ‘Mine.’ ”

Daemon turned to look at him. Lucivar couldn’t tell what was going on in his brother’s mind or heart, but he knew what he said here and now would matter. Really matter. So he took a moment to choose his words.

“Marian comes to my bed every night, but some nights it feels different. Occasionally I’m in bed before her, and when I see her walking toward the bed, watch her get into bed, I feel . . . different. I don’t have the words for it, Daemon. I just feel different. More . . . dangerous. It’s not like the rut. When this happens, I’m still there. My brain is still there. But something changes inside me, and I don’t see her the same way.

“I don’t know what she sees in my face, in my eyes. Sometimes when she gets into bed, she’s nervous but excited. Aroused. And sometimes she’s scared. Of me. Of whatever I am when that feeling fills me.”

Their eyes met. Held.

“What do you do?” Daemon asked softly.

“On the nights when she’s nervous and excited, the sex is . . .
more.
It has a flavor it doesn’t have any other time.”

“And on the other nights?”

“I’ll kiss her once, because I need to. And I’ll hold her while she sleeps. But I won’t have sex with her. Even if I’m ready to burst and she says she’s willing, I won’t have sex with her when I can smell her fear.”

Lucivar took a breath and blew it out. Not an easy thing to talk about, even with a brother he loved.

Not something he’d ever admitted to anyone before.

“Want some advice?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Some night soon, when nothing is riding you, when you’re feeling easy, invite Jaenelle to your bed. To the bed that’s yours, not hers.”

“To prove that the Sadist won’t always be there?”

“Oh, no. No, Daemon, the Sadist will rise in a heartbeat to defend your most private bit of territory. But I don’t think he’ll hurt Jaenelle. He’ll play games. That’s what he does. But he won’t hurt her.”

He felt a change inside Daemon, pieces that would never be completely whole settling back into place.

“I’ll take the yarbarah to Dena Nehele,” he said. “I’d like to get a look around, and this is a good excuse. And I’d like to get a look at this demon-dead Warlord Prince.”

“Which means you won’t be back until later tonight.”

“I’ll let you know when I get back to the Keep.”

“All right. Anything I can do here?”

Lucivar gave Daemon a lazy, arrogant smile. “You feeling brave?”

Daemon groaned.

“It’s market day. I was going to entertain the little beast for a couple of hours so Marian could go down to Riada alone.”

Daemon groaned louder, but this groan sounded less sincere.

“Fine. All right,” Daemon said. “For Marian.”

“Of course.”

Daemon laughed, and the sound had Lucivar breathing easy again.

“Will you be all right going to Terreille?” Daemon asked.

“I’ll be fine.”

Daemon hesitated. “You’ll shield?”

Lucivar vanished the two boxes of yarbarah. “Of course. I have to set a good example.” Slipping the hunting knife out of its sheath, he studied the blade for a moment before deciding it was a sufficient weapon to wear openly. “Is Surreal still pissed off at me for chewing on her because she didn’t shield before she went into that spooky house?”

“She doesn’t automatically swear anymore when she hears your name, so I think she’s getting over it.”

Lucivar grinned. “In that case, it’s time to get some other woman riled up.”

She had to move. Had to work. Move. Work. Keep moving.

Whenever she stopped for a moment, her hands throbbed in time with her heart, and she knew that wasn’t good. But the words were there, waiting to cut, jab, tear. The pain in her back, arms, shoulders, and hands kept the words at bay. Formed a wall that the other hurt couldn’t breach.

So she kept working, kept moving, kept the words at bay.

 

“How long can she keep that up?” Ranon asked, sounding worried.

Theran shook his head as he watched Cassidy. As they
all
watched Cassidy. Since early this morning, the First Circle had been gathering on the terrace to watch their Queen tear into the gardens.

So she got up feeling pissy. If she hadn’t been eavesdropping, she would have had a good ride last night and would have been feeling just fine this morning.

But she was out there digging in that damn garden so
everyone
would know little Cassidy was feeling pouty.

She’d snapped at Ranon when he’d gone out to talk to her, told him flat out to leave her alone. And when he, Theran, had approached her, she had screamed at him.
Screamed.
Scared Gray so much the boy had been hovering around the terrace ever since.

She’ll stop when she gets tired of playing the wounded party,
Theran thought.
Hell’s fire, it’s not like I actually did anything.

“What in the name of Hell is going on here?”

Theran spun around and stared at the Red-Jeweled Eyrien standing in the doorway. A Warlord Prince whose glazed gold eyes were a warning that the man was standing close to the killing edge, if he wasn’t already dancing on it.

Ranon shifted into a fighting stance.

The Eyrien stepped out on the terrace, ignoring Ranon, his eyes fixed on Cassidy.

“You don’t want to start a pissing contest with me,” the Eyrien said to Ranon. “You really don’t.” He turned his head, and Theran felt the punch of power as those gold eyes stared at him.

He was looking at death. This man was a stranger who had walked into his home and should be challenged, but he knew, with absolute certainty, that he was looking at death.

Then the Eyrien fixed his eyes on Gray. “You do anything to piss her off?” he asked mildly.

Gray shook his head.

“Then get me two large buckets of cold water, and put them over there.” He pointed to a spot near the stairs leading down to the lawn. “Do it now.”

Gray bolted.

“What are you going to do?” Theran asked.

“What you should have done,” the Eyrien replied. “Take care of your Queen.”

“She ordered us to leave her alone,” Ranon said.

The Eyrien snorted. “And you let her get away with that? Well, she knows better than to say that to me.”

As soon as Gray returned with the buckets of water, the Eyrien headed for Cassidy. When he got close to her, he whistled sharply.

Her head came up—and the hoe came up like a weapon. The Eyrien simply grabbed the wood between her hands and tugged. She yanked back. He tugged. Then he yanked, lifting her off her feet for a moment before he turned and walked back to the terrace, dragging her with him.

Her feet kept trying to find purchase, but she skimmed along the top of the grass while the Eyrien ignored her increasingly shrill demands.

“It’s my hoe!” Cassidy yelled, still fighting the Eyrien as he yanked her up high enough to clear the terrace steps. “Let go! It’s mine!”

“Uh-huh.” The Eyrien set her down in front of the buckets.

“Mine!”

A fast twist of his wrist, and the length of the hoe handle between Cassidy’s hands snapped off cleanly. He tossed it off the terrace.

“You broke my hoe!” Cassidy wailed.
“You broke my hoe!”

As she threw down the broken pieces, the buckets rose up behind her and doused her with cold water.

Her shriek had all of them jumping back. Except the Eyrien.

“Have I got your attention now, witchling?” the Eyrien asked.

“You—” Cassidy blinked. Stared at the man.

“Yeah. Remember me?”

“Oh, shit.” Her eyes skipped over Theran and settled on Ranon and the others before coming back to the Eyrien.

“Listen up, Cassie, because I’ll only tell you this once,” the Eyrien said. “If you have a problem with your court, you deal with your court. And if they end up with a few bruises because of it, so be it.”

“A Queen doesn’t do that to her court,” Cassidy said.

The Eyrien grabbed her wrists and turned her hands palms up. “And a woman doesn’t do
this
to herself.”

Theran looked at Cassidy’s hands and felt his stomach roll. How could she have done that? Why didn’t she stop?

She looked at her hands—and grew pale.

“You ever do anything like this again, I’ll haul you back to Kaeleer,” the Eyrien said. “And I’ll bury anyone who tries to stop me.”

“You have no right to—”

“You do anything like this again, I will haul you back to Kaeleer, and
you
can explain to your father why you did this to his daughter.”