He grunted, raised his head, and got his eyes open enough to look out the window. Then his head dropped back down on the pillow. “Witch-child,
nothing
is wonderful before the sun comes up, and the sun is still sleeping. Don’t you want to sleep for another hour?”
“Tch.”
Daemon groaned. What reasonable child
wanted
to get up before the sun?
“Papa.”
Reaching out, he groped for the other adult who should have been in the bed. *Surreal?*
*I’m in the bathroom. I’ll be back in a minute.*
*Are you well?*
*Needing to pee first thing in the morning doesn’t mean I’m ill. And being in the bathroom doesn’t mean my moontime has started yet, so back off, Sadi.* Defensive temper sizzled in the psychic link before Surreal broke the connection, a sure sign there was nothing wrong with
his
ability to read a calendar.
Fine. Wonderful. The sun wasn’t up, he was barely awake, and he already had one female snarling at him and the other prepared to keep jumping on him until he saw whatever wonderful thing she wanted to show him.
He turned on the bedside lamp, its candle-light still set to the soft light he preferred for sex, and tried to force his brain into believing he should be awake at this hour of the morning. “All right, witch-child. Let me up.”
Jaenelle slid off the bed, bouncing with excitement. “Come
on
, Papa.” She started to yank the sheet off him.
He grabbed the sheet before she pulled it below his waist, and snarled softly, a sound that would have frightened everyone else and just made his daughter pause.
“Get out of here,” he said. “Let me get dressed.”
“I can wait for you,” she protested. “If I leave, you’ll take
forever
.”
“I’m not wearing anything, so I’m not getting out of bed until you’re gone.”
“Oh,
tch
,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “I’ve seen boy parts before.”
He didn’t remember moving, but his hand was suddenly locked around her wrist. His temper had turned feral and cold and was rising to the killing edge, and he knew by the way her eyes widened that his eyes were glazed.
“Explain, witch-child,” he crooned.
“I’m sorry.” She tried to pull away from him, but his hold, while gentle, was unyielding. “We didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
“Jaenelle Saetien.”
*Daemon?* Surreal asked.
He shut out his wife and stared at his trembling daughter.
“Explain.”
“Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!”
He saw the room through a red veil. With effort, he released Jaenelle’s wrist. “Get out of here.
Now.
”
She ran. The moment she was out of the room, he flung the sheet aside, sprang out of bed, and strode to his own adjoining bedroom to get dressed. He could hear Jaenelle yelling for her mother, felt the crackle of Gray power in response. No doubt Surreal had used Craft to pass through the wall and meet Jaenelle in the corridor. Better that way. Right now he couldn’t get past the rage to deal with the girl in any gentle way.
He was dressed and striding for his bedroom’s door when Surreal rushed in from her room.
“Jaenelle’s practically in hysterics,” she said. “What in the name of Hell is going on?”
“I don’t know yet.” His hand closed on the door’s handle.
“Where are you going?”
He turned his head and looked at her—and watched her freeze because she recognized the difference between dealing with the Warlord Prince of Dhemlan and the High Lord of Hell.
But she swallowed hard and pushed, because Surreal wouldn’t do anything less. “Daemon, where are you going?”
He yanked on the handle and ripped the door off its hinges. Letting it fall, he snarled, “I’m going to have a chat with my brother.”
All the way to Ebon Rih, Daemon worked to keep his temper chained—at least until he had some kind of explanation from Prince Yaslana.
“Oh,
tch
. I’ve seen boy parts before.... Uncle Lucivar said it was all right!
Memories swam too close to the surface. Memories of a place called Briarwood and men who were called uncles—men who violated little girls. Memories of Jaenelle Angelline’s body torn from a savage rape. And blood. So much blood. That terrible night had been the first time he’d seen Witch in the Misty Place after he’d fallen too far in the abyss and shattered his mind.
He dropped from the Black Wind to the landing web below Lucivar’s eyrie. The air around him turned frigid, and the green leaves of the nearby plants frosted as he climbed the steps to the flagstone courtyard.
He walked into his brother’s home without knocking, then twisted the chain on his temper a little more when he heard Daemonar and Titian chattering in the kitchen—and heard Lucivar answer some question that had been inserted in the chatter.
Maybe it was better this way, with the children here. If Lucivar had been alone . . .
He walked into the kitchen. Titian looked up and gave him a cheerful, “Hi, Uncle Daemon,” before she picked up his mood and hunched in her seat.
Lucivar gave him one measuring look, then continued cooking breakfast.
Daemonar stood up, a young Warlord Prince prepared to die defending his father and sister. The boy swallowed hard and said, “It wasn’t Jaenelle’s fault.”
“It wasn’t anyone’s fault,” Lucivar said with such dismissive certainty the tone pierced Daemon’s cold rage, leaving behind a moment’s doubt.
“But something did happen,” Daemon said too softly.
Lucivar shrugged, then filled two of the plates on the counter with eggs and bacon, adding slices of toast and a bowl of summer berries. Calling in a tray, he stacked it with the plates, silverware, the butter dish, and a jar of Marian’s jam. He took two glasses from a cupboard and filled them with milk.
“Daemonar, take the tray into the dining room. You and your sister have breakfast in there. Titian, can you carry the milk?”
“We’re supposed to eat where?” Daemonar asked as Lucivar handed him the tray.
“Dining room,” Lucivar replied. “You know. The place you only see on special occasions. Now go.”
“But, Papa.”
“Go.”
Daemonar glanced at Daemon, fear in his eyes. “Come on, Titian.”
Daemon said nothing, did nothing except assess every move and every sound Lucivar made. When the children were in the other room, he wrapped a Black shield around the kitchen, then added an aural shield. Whatever they said to each other would remain private—providing they were both still alive when the discussion was done.
Lucivar took two white mugs from the cupboard. “Coffee?”
“Not yet.” He didn’t eat with an enemy. Refusing the coffee right now was a warning that while he and Lucivar would always be brothers, they might no longer be friends.
Lucivar filled one mug, then set the coffeepot back on the stove. “I’m surprised you didn’t show up sooner. And frankly, Bastard, I’m surprised you’re this pissed off about it.”
“My daughter was exposed to a naked male. You knew and didn’t tell me.You’re damn right I’m pissed off about it.”
“I told her to tell you.” Lucivar sighed. “I guess she didn’t.”
“Now you will,” he said coldly. “And the first thing you’re going to tell me is who displayed himself to a girl her age.”
Lucivar took a slow swallow of coffee. “Me.”
It crushed his heart. He suspected that would be the answer and had hoped he was wrong.
Then he considered Daemonar’s words and Lucivar’s dismissive response. Jaenelle had been equally dismissive about whatever had happened.
Was
he wrong?
“Explain.” He could barely force out the word.
“Do you want the short version or all the details?”
“Oh, I want all the details, Prick. I do want the details.”
“All right.” Lucivar huffed out a breath and told him.
Lucivar rested in the small pool that was one of his favorite places in Ebon Rih, lulled by the twitter of birds, the easy fall of water, and the voices of young girls doing happy girl things. He’d checked the area before setting up a perimeter shield that allowed Titian and Jaenelle Saetien to have a feeling of independence while never being beyond his awareness.
After a quick dip to cool off from the summer heat, they’d said they wanted to pick wildflowers so that Marian could teach them . . . something. Since he and Daemonar had the pool to themselves, they stripped completely and settled into water he considered sun-warmed to perfection, since it was still first-gasp cool.
Through half-closed eyes, he watched his son trying to act relaxed and lazy, but the boy was too focused on the sound of the girls’ voices to be either.
No. Daemonar still acted like a boy at times, but he was well into the adolescent stage, both physically and emotionally, and the aggressive temper of a Warlord Prince was now added to the possessive, protective side of their caste.
Daemonar sighed and ducked under the water. When he surfaced, he sighed again. “They giggle a lot. Especially when they’re together. Why do they giggle like that?”
“Because they’re girls.”
“That’s not much of an answer.”
“It’s the only one I’ve got, boyo. Young females are still females, and their minds are wondrous, strange, and confusing.”
Daemonar rolled his eyes. “It makes Titian and Jaenelle sound dumb, like some of the older girls in school. Except Jillian.
She
wouldn’t act dumb.”
Quick to defend, Lucivar thought. “Anything I need to know about?”
“No, sir.”
And a little too quick with that answer. Might be nothing, but Lucivar wouldn’t dismiss it until he’d had a chat with Jillian and
knew
it was nothing. Daemonar saw Jillian as an older sister, which meant she was his to protect and defend. So the boy would never admit to an adult that she was doing something dumb even if he thought she was doing something dumb.
Looked like it was time for a reminder talk about the difference between doing something dumb but not dangerous and doing something that put one of them in the position of needing the intervention of an adult—namely, him.
“They’re going to pick
all
the flowers,” Daemonar said.
Lucivar studied his son. “If you want to do something for your mother, you can help her weed the garden this evening. Then you can have some time alone with her. She’ll like that just as much as picked flowers.”
Big sigh. “The girls will push in.”
“I’ll keep the girls out of the way.”
“Yeah?” Daemonar climbed out of the pool, looking happier.
“Hey.” Lucivar waited until Daemonar met his eyes. “Do not start teasing them.”
“I won’t.”
Lucivar stared at him. “They’re having a good time. Let them be.”
“I’m not going to do anything. Not with Jaenelle here.”
“Because she’s younger than you and Titian?”
Daemonar grinned. “No, because she hits a lot harder than Titian.”
His sigh turned into a chuckle. “Go on, then.”
Daemonar grabbed his clothes and darted over to the bushes where he would have privacy dressing.
Lucivar pushed away from the edge of the pool and floated on his back, his wings spread.
Didn’t get much quiet time these days, not since Marian had given birth to their third child, a boy they named Andulvar in honor of the Demon Prince. A hard birthing, and it was taking Marian longer to recover. Because she needed more rest and her time and strength were being given to the baby, he made sure Daemonar and Titian had a little time alone with her each day. And he made sure she had a little time for herself. Like today when he took the children for an afternoon at the pool and Jillian was at the eyrie to help out and watch the baby so that Marian could have a couple of hours to sleep or read in peace.
With all the children nearby but occupied, he could have a few minutes of peace himself.
The girls’ shrieks had him snapping upright, but he stayed in the pool, listening while he sent out psychic probes to search for the problem. They weren’t yelling for help, and those shrieks weren’t telling him much. The sound could be for anything—bug, snake, weird formation of bark on a tree. Granted, the girls weren’t prone to shrieking, since they’d learned early how their fathers responded to the sound, but they
were
young girls of a certain age, so . . .
Daemonar’s voice. Angry. Distressed. Close to panic.
It didn’t matter if he couldn’t sense anything wrong. If all three of them were upset, there
was
a problem.