“I bet you five silver marks that you can’t ‘borrow’ a carpet broom from the town house without also ‘borrowing’ the maid who has her hands wrapped around the handle.”
“My mother is a hearth witch. I know how to clean.”
“Dream on, boyo.”
“Fine. I’ll take the bet.”
“In that case, I’ll see you at dinner.”
She’d made the bet to help Daemonar shake off whatever fear he still had about whatever had happened at the school. As she returned to the SaDiablo side of the town house, Surreal wondered if the boy had taken the bet in order to help her shake off her own fear.
The Ebon-gray arrived at the town house. An hour later, the Black departed.
Daemonar stared at a chapter he was supposed to read for tomorrow’s class and waited for a summons that didn’t come until Lucivar gave him a psychic tap and told him it was time for dinner.
Uncomfortable subjects were set aside, which meant no one asked about the school. Instead, Lucivar and Surreal talked about the SaDiablo vineyards and the book Jillian had written, which had been purchased by Uncle Daemon’s publishing house. Talking and teasing to cover the fact that Aunt Surreal felt uneasy about the most lethal side of Uncle Daemon’s temper coming to the surface at the school.
As soon as dinner was over, Surreal excused herself and went to her room. He and Lucivar walked over to the sitting room in the other side of the town house.
Lucivar poured two fingers of whiskey into two glasses, then handed one to him before settling into a chair designed for Eyriens. “Tell me what happened today. All of it.”
“Didn’t Uncle Daemon tell you?”
“He did. Now I want to hear it from you.”
He told his father all of it, starting with the warm-up and sparring with Titian and Zoey, his meeting with Prince Raine, and his reaction when he returned to his room after his shower and realized what Krellis and the other two boys had done. He tried to be matter-of-fact about his decision to summon the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan because Uncle Daemon had told him to report any trouble at the school and how that wasn’t the side of his uncle’s temper that had responded to his summons. Finally, he told Lucivar what the Sadist had said—and done.
He sipped the whiskey. A far better blend than the stuff Tamnar had purchased. “Before I walked into the dining room, I heard Aunt Surreal tell you that I might have danced with the Sadist.” He’d heard the phrase before, but now he had some idea of what it meant.
“Have you left anything out?” Lucivar asked.
“No, sir.”
“Then you didn’t dance with the Sadist. You brushed against that side of Daemon’s temper, saw a little of what he can do, but his attention and his rage weren’t aimed at you.”
That attention had been aimed at him once when he’d been in the Queen’s part of the Keep. Auntie J. had stopped whatever might have happened, but he remembered how it had felt when the Sadist had focused on him and seen a rival or adversary or enemy.
A pause. Then Lucivar said, “What you also saw was that the Sadist trusted your judgment when you asked him to stop. He trusted that the punishment and pain he’d inflicted sufficiently balanced the offense because you told him it was enough. He doesn’t offer that trust to many people.”
“Did Aunt Surreal ever dance with the Sadist?” He knew that Daemon and Surreal had a different kind of marriage from his parents. If Aunt Surreal couldn’t cope with being around the Sadist, that would explain a lot about their living arrangements.
“The Sadist as lover is playful, terrifying, and magnificent,” Lucivar replied. “And he’s focused on giving pleasure rather than pain. But even at his mildest, he can be overwhelming. Surreal has brushed against those same edges that you did today, and she experienced the Sadist as lover—once—but she’s never really danced with the Sadist.”
Daemonar studied his father. “But you have.”
Lucivar downed the whiskey, then poured himself another glass. “Yeah, I have. And I am one of the few who have danced with him and survived.”
“Why did the Sadist show up at the school instead of the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan? I thought Uncle Daemon would come in an official capacity, but not . . .” He didn’t know how to explain.
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” Lucivar hesitated. “That day at the Keep when you saw the Sadist for the first time? Daemon saw something in a tangled web. He doesn’t remember what he saw, just that you’re somehow connected. He’s been preparing for war ever since. We’ve been preparing for war, and that trouble with Orian makes me think that war is on the horizon.” He blew out a breath. “I also think you’re the reason the Sadist walked into Fharra’s office. Something about you being at the school calls to that side of him because whatever was in that web connects the two of you. But that means you and the girls need to be careful.”
“We will.”
Lucivar set his glass on a marble coaster. “You spar with Titian and Zoey. What about Jaenelle Saetien?”
Daemonar hesitated. “She’s made new friends since she’s been at school. They think sparring is a rube activity, so she doesn’t want to join us and have them make fun of her.”
“Do they make fun of you?”
Hearing that matter-of-fact tone of voice, and recognizing it as a warning sign that Lucivar’s temper was straining the leash, Daemonar hesitated again. “It’s hard to feel insulted when I don’t think any better of them. There are some boys who would be interested in learning to spar, but they’re intimidated by Krellis and his pack, as well as by the coven of malice.”
Damn. He hadn’t intended to say the name he’d given Jaenelle Saetien’s new friends.
“Coven of malice,” Lucivar said softly. “Did you mention that to Daemon?”
“No.” And he wasn’t going to.
Lucivar said nothing for a moment. Then, “Anything you want to do with the rest of the evening?”
Daemonar smiled. “Spar with someone who’s better than me. I’m getting soft with no one but Titian as a partner, although Zoey is becoming more of a challenge.”
Laughing, Lucivar pushed out of the chair. “That suits me.”
Sweating and working against a man who was brilliant when he put his hand to any weapon—Daemonar couldn’t think of a better way to spend an evening.
Daemon slowly unbuttoned his shirt and let it slide off his shoulders. He’d enjoyed a simple meal of soup, bread, and cheese, along with a bottle of wine from the SaDiablo vineyards. As he ate, he’d let the leashes loosen and slip away from his power, his temper, and his sexual heat. Now he let the last leash slip away—and the Sadist drew in a full breath, reveled in the feel of cool air against his skin as he finished undressing, and looked forward to slipping into a warm bed.
Something at the school. Every time he brushed against the boy at the school, he brushed against . . . something.
As his fingers traced the thin raised scars on his right biceps, he felt comforted by this tangible promise that, even at his darkest and most lethal, he wasn’t alone.
Getting into bed, he settled on his belly with his arms folded under his pillow—and waited. He must have dozed off because he came back to wakefulness when he felt a weight on his ass and two hooves planted on either side of his spine.
Daemon smiled and murmured, “I wondered when you would show up.”
“Sometimes solitude serves a mood better than company,” Witch replied.
“But it doesn’t always supply answers. You know, but you won’t tell me.”
“What I know is that you’re the one who will recognize the danger.”
“The boy seems to call to the Sadist, seems to call a wisp of memory closer to the surface.” A huff of laughter. “He stirred up the school’s pricks right and proper.”