The room turned icy. His eyes glazed—and he smiled a cold, cruel smile. “If you’re gambling that I wouldn’t physically hurt you, then you’re probably right. But I could—and would—hurt anyone who helped you defy me, and everyone on Scelt knows that. Also, you would forfeit any additional funds that come from me. I wouldn’t strip you of the money already in your account, but that would be the end of it. Instead of having free time, you’d have to find work that would provide you with income for food and lodging.”
She did want to go to Scelt. Needed to go to Scelt. So she had to accept his terms.
“Fine,” Saetien said. “I’ll stay with this Kieran and his family.”
“I’m delighted,” Daemon replied, the words holding a sharp edge. “I’ll return in three days to pick you up and take you to Scelt.”
“I can—”
“Be ready first thing that morning. I’ll talk to Helene about sorting out some clothes that will be appropriate for a stay in Maghre—unless you would prefer to write to her and make that request.”
Having Helene and a maid going through her clothes to choose some outfits wasn’t any different than having a maid put clothes into her wardrobe and dressers after wash day, but it felt more intrusive somehow. But she was banned from the Hall, so she couldn’t go through the clothes there anyway, and if she sent a written request, she’d lose a day or more before Helene received the message.
“Thank you, Father. If you talk to Helene, that will give her time to find the proper outfits.”
She left the sitting room feeling churned up and unhappy instead of excited. And she knew without a doubt that she had brought that unhappiness on herself.
Daemon wanted nothing more than to collect Brenda and head to SaDiablo Hall. And Hell’s fire, he needed some sleep, but he had no idea what was happening at the Hall. Beale had been reticent about what had been going on, saying only that Lucivar was still in residence and Surreal was not. And one instructor had resigned, so it was fortunate he was bringing someone new.
One more to go, he thought as Jillian walked into the room.
She stared at him. He tried very hard not to stare at her short spiky black hair.
“Lady Karla?” Jillian’s wings flared to their full span before settling back to their usual position. “Free fall? What were you thinking?”
What was she talking about? “Free fall?”
“Karla. Virgin Night. Did Lucivar actually tell you about that night?”
“Well . . . no.” Maybe he should have asked Karla before he suggested she talk to Jillian.
He looked at her spiky hair. Maybe he should stop suggesting that Jillian talk to Karla. For his own sake.
“Fortunately, Brenda was more forthcoming about what to expect.”
Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful. “Oh. Good. I’m delighted.” Daemon wanted to put some distance between himself and this witch who was sounding a bit . . . exercised. But he was a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince, and backing down wasn’t an option.
“I think having the party the following evening would be sensible. Give me a little time to adjust. What do you think?”
“Quite sensible,” he agreed, grateful that she was back to sounding like the Jillian he knew. “Inform Surreal to send me the date you’ll be going through this rite of passage, and Lucivar and I will arrange to have a party at the town house the next evening.”
“Nothing big. Just family and a few good friends. I’d like Brenda to come, if she’s interested and can get away for an evening. And Stefan, of course.”
“Of course. We’ll take care of it.”
Jillian gave him a bright smile. “I’d better get Saetien back to the sanctuary, or she’ll be late for her morning classes.”
“You do that.”
Daemon waited until Jillian left the room. Waited until he was sure no one else was going to come bouncing into the room with other thoughts, demands, opinions. Then he scrubbed his hands over his face and muttered, “Jillian and Brenda. May the Darkness have mercy on me.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Daemonar felt self-conscious about leading the adult men through the warm-up and workout with the Eyrien sparring sticks when his father was one of those adult men. How was he supposed to comment about Lucivar’s fighting skills?
The second time Daemonar almost missed blocking one of Weston’s moves because he wondered what Lucivar thought about the way he’d taught the other men to use the sticks, his father’s sharp whistle called a halt to the workouts.
“You can’t be thinking about my opinions when you have an opponent in front of you,” Lucivar said when the other men left the room. “You do that, you’re going to be kissing dirt—or nursing bruised ribs.”
“You should be leading this workout,” Daemonar said.
“No, I should not. That’s one of your duties. From what I’ve seen, you taught those men the moves as they should be done, and the only thing they need is practice to hone their skills.”
“Is your ankle bothering you?” He’d noticed a couple of moves that weren’t fluid and gave Lucivar’s opponent a potential opening.
“Is that why you retreated from Weston’s advance?” Lucivar gave him a knowing look. “So you’d be close to my left side? But you didn’t comment about the misstep. An instructor should have.”
“You did that deliberately?”
Lucivar smiled. “A different kind of lesson, just for you. You made the right move for a battlefield or a killing field. But here? You should have called me on it—if for no other reason than to prevent a potential injury. You would have if I’d been anyone else.”
Daemonar sighed.
Lucivar laughed. “It’s not easy giving orders to someone who outranks you and is usually the one giving you orders. But sometimes, boyo, that’s what you need to do. I had plenty of opportunities to learn that lesson with your auntie J.” He wrapped a hand around the back of Daemonar’s neck and kissed his forehead. “Get cleaned up and get some breakfast. You have other duties this morning. I’ll take the rest of the sparring lessons.”
“It’s the girls this morning. There will be whining.”
Lucivar gave him a lazy, arrogant smile. “Then I will give them a reason to whine.”
Oh, shit.
Daemonar hurried toward his room, then stopped when he spotted Zoey and her coven heading for the main dining room. He gave Zoey and Titian a nod, then said, “Lady Jhett, your assistance is required.”
Jhett’s eyes widened at the formal request that was actually an order, since he was a Warlord Prince who outranked her. She glanced at Zoey, who had stopped walking the moment she heard the words.
“Is there something we can do for you, Daemonar?” Zoey asked.
“I just need a bit of help from Jhett.”
*But not from me,* Zoey said on a psychic thread, sounding disheartened.
*Not today.*
Zoey hurried away, followed by the other girls. Titian gave him a worried look but said nothing as she linked arms with her friend.
Zoey had stumbled the night Grizande arrived, and she hadn’t regained her balance, and that was a concern. He wasn’t sure why making a mistake had hit her so hard—and that was something he needed to mention to Uncle Daemon.
“What kind of help?” Jhett asked.
“I’m supposed to take Grizande to the village this morning and show her around. And she’s supposed to purchase some clothes. All kinds of clothes.” He had a mother and a sister. He’d seen his share of female underwear being dried on wash day. But he wasn’t his uncle, and helping a girl he barely knew purchase underwear . . . No.