“No,” she said, “it’s Dea al Mon.”
Nerves danced in his eyes at the mention of the Children of the Wood—a race who fiercely protected their Territory and seldom let anyone who crossed their border walk out again—but he worked to keep his smile easy.
“Then you must be Lady Surreal,” he said. “I’ve heard of you.”
You didn’t hear enough, sugar. If you’d heard about more than my “public” profession, you wouldn’t be crowding me.
She smiled at him, called in a silver mark and put it on the bar when the server gave her the glasses of sparkling wine, and turned to leave. The woman directly in her path stared at her with hostile jealousy for a moment before moving aside.
She dismissed the look without a second thought as she worked her way back up to the box. She’d seen enough of those looks when she’d been a whore in Terreille.
Maybe that accounted for the odd feeling she got from the Warlord and his interest in the bracelet. Maybe he’d just been trying to find out where he could buy something similar and was nervous about his Lady seeing him talking to another woman. Besides, there was something about the woman in the moment when their eyes met that practically shouted “possessive bitch” to someone who’d spent her life quickly sizing up rivals, enemies, and prey.
Not her problem, she thought as Daemon opened the door enough for her to slip back into the box. Noticing the unhappiness lurking in his eyes before he took the glass she offered, she almost said something, but the house lights began fading as a warning that the second act was about to begin.
No, the Warlord and the bitch weren’t her problem—not when she had a bigger, and more dangerous, one sitting beside her.
3
Surreal waited until they’d enjoyed the appetizers at the dining house Daemon had chosen for their after-theater meal.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked quietly.
“The play?”
“No, about what’s going on between you and Jaenelle that’s making you so unhappy.”
“Leave it alone, Surreal,” he said, his voice turning icy and razor-edged.
She shook her head. “Can’t, sugar.”
“Do you want to talk about Falonar?” he countered.
She hissed.
“Exactly.” Smiling, he raised his wineglass in a salute. Then he looked down at his plate—and sighed. “I’ll talk if you will.”
Hell’s fire. The least said about Falonar to any male in her family the better. But . . . “I have your word you won’t do anything to him? Anything?”
She didn’t like the fact that he thought about it for several seconds before inclining his head in agreement.
Pushing her plate aside, she folded her arms on the table. Not a ladylike posture, but it let her lean closer to him. It occurred to her that they could have this entire conversation on a psychic thread to keep it silent and private, but it felt necessary to give the words the weight of sound.
“I’m not what he wanted,” she said, feeling the sting of the truth.
“He doesn’t want a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman?”
Realizing Daemon meant what he’d said eased the sting a little. She tried to smile. “He wants a Marian. Not Marian, ” she added quickly, seeing the instant chill in Daemon’s eyes. “The things that intrigued him enough initially for him to offer to share his eyrie with me were the same things that eventually stuck in his throat. Hell’s fire, Sadi, I’m not going to apologize for what I’ve been.”
“He couldn’t get past the fact that you used to be paid for sex?” Daemon asked too softly.
“Since he wasn’t offering to be anything more than my lover, that didn’t bother him. Well, not much. And he certainly appreciated my . . . skills.” She sighed. “No, what rubbed the wrong way was my skill with a knife—and the fact that an assassin doesn’t worry about sticky details like letting the prey know he’s about to be turned into carrion.”
“You were a competitor.”
She sat back as the dishes vanished and the server brought the main course. She savored the taste of a perfectly cooked filet before going back to a subject that would ruin her appetite.
“I was a competitor,” she agreed. “Falonar could be indulgent about the Eyrien witches learning to use weapons to defend themselves because none of them will ever have enough skill to be a rival to him. And they were only learning because Lucivar insisted on it, not because they wanted to. But I wanted to improve skills I already had—and killing is what I do.”
“And since Falonar wears a Sapphire Jewel and you wear the Gray, he wasn’t stronger than you in that arena,” Daemon said. “There are plenty of men who have lovers who wear darker Jewels than they do.”
“Falonar wants a woman who looks at him and sees a protector, a defender. He wants someone who needs his strength, someone whose talents are . . . gentler.”
“Who is she?” Daemon asked as he dipped a piece of lobster into the bowl of clarified butter.
Surreal studied him warily. “I didn’t say there was someone in particular.”
Daemon just smiled and continued eating.
She concentrated on her own meal for a few minutes. Then she sighed. “Nurian. She’s a Healer.”
“And she’s Eyrien.”
“I don’t know how deep Falonar’s feelings about her run, but I’m pretty sure she’s in love with him. Over the winter, things changed between him and me. Lots of sex and not much else. Some snide comments about my snip-ping off balls because I wanted a pair of my own. And for the record, I’d rather have the discomfort of moontimes than carry what you’ve got between your legs.”
He just raised an eyebrow.
“Moon’s blood only throws me offstride three days out of a month. A cock makes a man potentially stupid at any hour of any day.”
“You have such faith in the male gender,” he said blandly.
“I made a good living because cocks make men stupid,” she countered, picking up her glass to sip her wine.
“And Falonar’s cock kept pointing in Nurian’s direction?”
She clamped a hand over her mouth to keep from spraying wine all over the table. “Now that’s a picture,” she said when she finally managed to swallow. “No, it wasn’t that obvious. Mostly because I was in the way,” she added softly.
Daemon nodded. “A Gray-Jeweled witch who is skilled with a knife . . . and is also related to Lucivar.”
“I think Falonar couldn’t figure out how to step back.”
“Probably afraid that if you didn’t rip his balls off, Lucivar would.”
“Exactly.”
“So you told him things weren’t working between you and packed your bags.”
She shrugged. “Seemed the only thing to do.”
“Did you love him?”
She hesitated, then shook her head. “I felt . . . special . . . for a little while. I’ve had sex with hundreds of men over the centuries, but I’ve never had a lover. I’m feeling bruised, but I’m not heartbroken over it.”
Dipping the last piece of lobster into the butter, Daemon held it out to her. “Someday you’ll find a man worthy of you.”
She looked into his eyes, scared that she’d see some underlying message. What she saw was the warm affection of an older brother. She took the bite from his fork.
Easing back, she enjoyed the warmth for a moment before saying, “Your turn.”
He set his fork on his plate with painful care. Then he picked up his wine and studied it.
“I’m losing her,” he said softly. “I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but . . . I’m losing her.”
Surreal stiffened. “What you are talking about?”
His voice dropped to a whisper. “Maybe I’m no longer what Jaenelle wants.”
“Wait,” she snapped. “Just wait.” She studied the misery in his eyes. “You really believe that.”
“She isn’t comfortable being around me anymore.”
Surreal shook her head. “I agree something isn’t right between you, but, Daemon, I’m sure it isn’t that.”
“You were only at the Hall a few days.”
“Which was long enough to know you’re going down the wrong path if you think Jaenelle doesn’t love you anymore.”
He closed his eyes, shutting her out, but not before she saw the pain and desperation he was choking back.
She reached across the table and took his hand. Worry spiked through her when his fingers curled around hers in a fierce hold, a sure sign he was looking for reassurance.
“She won’t talk to me,” he said. “I don’t know what to do.”
“I do.”
He opened his eyes, disbelief warring with hope.
“I’m willing to wager a year’s income that her feelings haven’t changed,” Surreal said. “And I know yours haven’t changed. So maybe the reason she can’t talk to you is because you have a cock.”
“I’ve always had a cock,” he said dryly.
“Right. And there are things you might admit to another man you’d never admit to a woman. And there are things a woman might say to another woman that she would never say to a man—especially a man she loves.”
“And your point is?”
“You’re going to be in Amdarh a few more days, right?”
“I do have some things to take care of.”
“Fine. You go tend to things, and I’ll go back to the Hall and have a little chat with Jaenelle.”
“What makes you think she’ll talk to you?”
I’m not going to give her a choice. Which wasn’t something she intended to ever tell Daemon, so she gave him a sassy smile. “Because I know the opening line to this little play.” She eased her fingers out of his grip and patted his hand. “Trust me. And signal the server to bring over the dessert tray.”
“Did you see the way he fed her that bite of lobster?” Roxie said, sighing. “That’s like something from a love story. He’s sooo romantic.”
Tavey frowned. “If you wanted to taste some of my dinner, why didn’t you say so?”
Watching Daemon, Lektra wanted to smash all the plates and glasses on the table. How could he betray her like that? How could he sit there, in public, and fawn over a whore. She was the one who was working to free him from that useless cripple, Jaenelle. He shouldn’t be playing with another woman. He shouldn’t even be thinking of another woman. It was so . . . sluttish. When he was hers, she’d make sure he severed all association with that bitch, Surreal.
