Once they reached the stables, Raeth helped Zoey and Jhett step down from the carriage, leaving Neala and the two footmen assigned to Lady Dumm to deal with their guest, who seemed to have run out of comments about the estate—and thank the Darkness for that.
Reaching the great hall, Zoey hesitated. Should she inform Prince Sadi that the kindred had shortened the carriage ride?
*You are sick,* said the Sceltie herding Azara into the great hall.
“I’m not sick!” Azara almost wailed the words, a sign that this discussion was on its second—or third—round.
*You are sneezing. You are sick. You need to see the Healer, and you need blankets, and you need hot drinks. And a nap.*
“Something in the greenhouse made me sneeze. That’s not the same as being sick. You sneezed too.”
*There was a stinky. But that is me. That is not you.*
Being the dominant Queen, Zoey took pity on Azara. “Lady Azara, go see Lady Nadene and have the Healer confirm that the sneezing is caused by a plant in the greenhouse and not by illness. Then take some quiet time. Napping is not required. Reading or writing letters are acceptable activities for quiet time.”
*Is dealing with them always like this?* Azara asked on a psychic thread.
*She’s just getting started,* Zoey replied.
Azara headed for the healing room with the Sceltie right behind her. Zoey, Raeth, and Jhett went into the informal reception room and collapsed.
Not looking at her friends, Jhett said, “Did you notice how Lady Dumm almost flew out of the carriage when we hit that bump in the road? If you hadn’t grabbed her arm . . .” She waved a hand at Zoey.
Raeth stared at the ceiling. “Did you notice there was nothing on that smooth road to cause the carriage to bounce like that?”
Zoey and Jhett stared at him.
“There had to be something,” Zoey said.
Raeth shook his head.
Allis, who had disappeared when they returned, trotted into the room. *Beale is bringing water and treats.*
Two kindred horses and one ticked-off Sceltie. Which of them had put the bounce in the road?
Deciding she didn’t want the answer, Zoey nibbled on treats and waited for the rest of her court to finish their morning assignments.
Daemonar watched Raeth, Caede, Trent, and Jarrod whack at straw-and-burlap dummies until the seams split. He wasn’t sure if they were releasing their feelings about dealing with Lady Dumm or expressing their new understanding about dealing with Scelties when the dogs were looking at humans not as playmates but as humans who needed their help.
He waved at the other Warlord Princes. “Prince Raine is expecting me, so I’ll see you at dinner.”
“Daemonar?” Jarrod said. “Do you have any idea how long Lady Dumm is staying around?”
“No idea at all. But if the Scelties start digging a hole, you should let someone know.”
Lucivar understood why Daemon had rearranged the seating, putting him at the other end of the table.
The battlefield was the length of the table, and the combatants were everyone seated at that table—and they were caught between the Black and the Ebon-gray.
Marian was seated next to Daemon at the head of the table, a change made because Daemon wanted to keep Grizande near him and the girl had been so pleased to see Marian. Lucivar, on the other hand, had Daemonar and Weston. Better than trying to talk to the girls, who all looked . . . Well, except for Zoey and Titian, they all looked like sheep who had seen a Sceltie for the first time—which probably wasn’t far from the truth.
Lady Dumm was seated in the center across from Brenda. Everyone else, students and instructors, found their assigned seats—and Lucivar wondered who had made the seating choices.
They finished the soup course before everyone relaxed enough to start talking.
“Are you all wound up for a reason?” Lucivar asked Daemonar.
Daemonar looked at Weston, who said, “Being from an aristo family does not guarantee good manners.”
Daemonar nodded. “She’s . . .”
The loud smacking of lips came from the chairs at the center of the table.
Daemonar closed his eyes and muttered, “Hell’s fire.”
Daemon continued talking to Marian as if he couldn’t hear the sound, couldn’t see the way all the youngsters were staring at Dumm, then looking at Sadi as if expecting—hoping?—he would put a stop to it.
The sound stopped. The whole table—except Daemon—sighed with relief as everyone finished the second course.
The third course ended with a belch that would have earned Lucivar’s boys extra chores if they’d done that at their mother’s table. But the loud, protracted fart had everyone putting down their forks, leaving the desserts unfinished.
Daemon still didn’t act like he’d noticed a thing—but in his gold eyes there was a glitter that warned Lucivar that they were all in trouble.
Daemon called in the red folder Saetan had left for his sons, and he flipped through the papers until he found the one he wanted. It wasn’t like the spells and instructions and notes about things the coven had done. It was a simple suggestion for how to deal with a difficult guest—and where to find what was needed.
An hour later, the High Lord walked to the Dark Altar protected by the Hall. He entered the chamber and lit the black candles in the proper order to open a Gate between Kaeleer and Hell. Passing from one Realm to the other, he walked out of the Dark Altar located next to the Hall in the Dark Realm—and waited.
He didn’t wait long before a couple of demon-dead Warlords approached. Cautious, yes, but not afraid.
“High Lord,” they said, bowing.
“There is something I need. I know it exists in this Realm, but I don’t know how easy it is to locate.”
“Easy enough to locate,” one said with a grin when he’d told them what he wanted. “Not so easy to procure.”
“Keep it shielded and bring it to me here. In exchange, I offer a case of yarbarah from the SaDiablo vineyards and a cup of fresh blood.”
“Whose blood?” the other asked.
The High Lord smiled. “Mine.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Kieran pulled out his chair and sat with the rest of his family while Eileen dished out the stew and Ryder passed around the warm biscuits and butter.
“It’s my quilting night,” Eileen said. “Anya will heat up some stew for Saetien after you bring her back from Butler’s, but you might as well have your supper with us.”
“Aye,” Kieran replied. He buttered a biscuit, then stared at it.
“Trouble?” Kildare asked.
Kieran sighed. “Brenda wasn’t always easy to live with when she was in that stage of growing up, but you knew who you were dealing with. Saetien?”
“She came here impatient for answers, thinking the answers would be simple to obtain just because she wanted them,” Eileen said. “She didn’t expect to have answers doled out by someone she couldn’t impress with anything but intelligence and good manners.”
“Butler dealt with unruly witches as a service to Queens and courts for a lot of years,” Kieran said.
Kildare drank some ale, then wagged a finger at his sons. “When I was around your age, there was a filly here who was the most fractious witch I’d ever met. Excellent bloodlines, and her dam was patient and sweet tempered, but the filly took against us almost from the moment she was born. My father tried to work with her, teach her. The sister of mine who also worked with the horses tried to connect with her. I tried. All we got were kicks and squeals and carrying on. Oh, she was smart and she paid attention when we started showing the foals basic Craft and teaching them the rest of what they needed to learn to live around humans, but she just banged around the pastures, and short of tossing her out, which would have been unforgivable in the eyes of all the kindred horses, we spent a couple of years clashing with her while we tried to figure out how to work with her.