“That’s what I thought.”
“However.” Daemon uncapped his pen and made a mark on the paper in front of him.
Hell’s fire, here it comes, Daemonar thought.
“I would expect to find a copy of this bit of Craft on my desk when I return to the study after the midday meal so that I can review it and use it as part of the next Craft lesson, since it had gone a wee bit wrong.”
Daemon looked up and gave Daemonar a smile that made the boy’s knees turn weak.
“That’s a sensible idea,” Daemonar said.
“I’m delighted you think so.” The words were purred, and that, in itself, was a warning.
Daemonar closed the study door, smiled at Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who was the Hall’s butler, and Holt, the Opal-Jeweled Warlord who was Daemon’s secretary, and strode across the great hall, heading for the staircase in the informal receiving room. Once out of sight, he bounded up the stairs and ran to the part of the Hall where the other youngsters waited.
Seven of the twenty-two girls who were now living at the Hall had been involved in whatever had gone awry. The rest of the girls and the fourteen boys who also lived at the Hall had come running at the sound of something going boom. Everyone had looked at the remains of the table that had held the items used for that spell, then looked at the hole in the wall—and then the other thirty-five youngsters had looked at him.
When he walked back into the room, they stared at him, their expressions all some variation of “Oh, shit, how much trouble are we in?”
Granted, they had good reason to be concerned. It was the first time any of them had blown up a piece of Uncle Daemon’s home.
“Well?” Titian asked, catching her lower lip between her teeth. “Are we in trouble?”
“What did Prince Sadi say?” Zoey asked.
“We’ll all chip in to pay for the repairs and get them done quietly.” He was pretty sure there wouldn’t be anything quiet about sawing and hammering and whatever else was needed, but this was a remote part of the Hall, so the noise shouldn’t be too obvious. “Zoey, write out what you and the other girls were trying to do, what you used in the spell, and the steps you took before things went . . .”
“Out the wall?” Titian suggested.
“Yeah. That. Don’t leave anything out. I’ll slip it on Prince Sadi’s desk when he’s away from his study.”
Everyone sucked in a breath. It was Jhett, one of the young Black Widows, who finally said, “Why tell him what we used for the spell?”
“Because that was his price for allowing us to take care of this ourselves,” Daemonar replied.
When Beale and Holt walked into his study, Daemon kept his eyes on the paper and continued to write random words—as if this conversation were casual enough not to require his full attention.
“There is a hole in a wall?” he asked mildly.
“There is, Prince,” Beale replied.
“A big hole?”
A hesitation. “Big enough to require repairs, but small enough that it shouldn’t require reconstruction of the entire wall.”
“I see.” Daemon noticed his mind had given up on the challenge of forming words and he was simply writing the same three letters over and over. “No one is at risk from falling debris?”
“I checked,” Holt said. When Daemon looked up, he shrugged. “One of the Scelties told Mikal there was a boom. Since Mikal was working with me today, we went to take a look. Discreetly.”
“But you didn’t think to inform me?” Daemon asked, his voice still mild.
Another shrug. “Daemonar was heading toward the study as Mikal and I headed toward the room, so I didn’t think it was my place to report the incident—unless Daemonar failed to tell you.”
Unfortunately, that made sense—or as much sense as anything currently made in the Hall.
“It’s raining,” Beale said. “And it’s cold out.”
Daemon capped his pen, abandoning the attempt to look unconcerned. “Yes, it is.”
“I believe the young Ladies would have tried this bit of Craft outdoors if it hadn’t been raining.”
“That it is cold and rainy has been pointed out to me.” He had to give the youngsters a chance to figure things out for themselves and work together to correct mistakes, just like they would have to do in the future when they were part of a Queen’s court. Wouldn’t his father have done that when Saetan had had the job of teaching and protecting Witch’s coven and the boyos? “Along with correcting whatever Craft has gone wrong, I think a review of creating shields will be in order for this week’s lessons, don’t you?”
“Absolutely,” Holt said.
“It would be prudent,” Beale agreed. “Experience indicates this will not be a singular event.”
Daemon sighed. “Very well.” He waited, but Beale and Holt didn’t leave. “Something else?”
Beale looked at Holt. Holt looked at Beale.
“It’s time,” Beale said. “Will you show him, or shall I?”
Holt hesitated, then said, “I’ll show him.”
Daemon studied the two men. “Show me what?”
His study was in the shape of a reversed L, the short end holding floor-to-ceiling bookcases behind his large blackwood desk. The sides of that part of the study were covered in dark red curtains. Behind one set of curtains was a door that opened into a storage room. Large shelves—some open, some with doors—started above Daemon’s head and went to the ceiling. Beneath the shelves were two rows of wooden filing cabinets that held paperwork and records for the family’s various estates and business interests.
Holt walked into the storage room. Daemon pushed away from his desk and followed his secretary to the last filing cabinet on the left-hand side. Holt called in a gold key and unlocked the cabinet. Then he handed Daemon the key.
“Beale has one key. I’ve held the other,” Holt said. “Per our instructions.”
“Instructions from . . . ?” He knew. He just wanted someone to say it.
“Your father. About a year before he went to the final death, he gave us the keys and told us to make the contents of this cabinet available to you when it would be helpful.”
“And that’s now?”
“Prince, you have a hole in a wall, so it’s time.”
Hell’s fire.
He’d been aware of this locked cabinet for centuries, but he’d never tried to find out what it held. Saetan had written Private on the label that had been slipped into the brass holder on the cabinet’s top drawer. These locked drawers had been his father’s business—and apparently, that business was now his.
Holt opened the top drawer, scanned the neatly labeled files, pulled one out, and handed it to Daemon.
He opened the file, read what amounted to a report, read it again—and looked at Holt. “I’ll double your wages this month if you can look me in the eyes and tell me this is fiction.”
Holt said nothing.
“I’ll triple your wages.”
Holt looked regretful but said nothing.
Mother Night. “Tell me what you remember.”
“Their intentions were good,” Holt began. “Well, their intentions were always good, but this time it started because a child in the village was playing with some friends and through some foolishness put his arms through the glass in a window. Serious injuries, lots of bleeding, panicked adults, hysterical friends—and the possibility that the boy would lose the use of both arms. Halaway’s Healer requested assistance, which is how Jaenelle, Karla, and Gabrielle got involved.”