Frigid air washed up the backs of his legs, there and gone.
Daemon rose up behind him. “Open your wings. I want to make sure I cleaned all the shit off them.”
Something wrong here. Something off. Feeling vulnerable, but knowing what might happen if he refused, Lucivar spread his wings. Daemon’s touch was light and careful as he moved the sponge over the wings, but Lucivar knew when he was being touched by the Sadist.
What had he said to bring out this side of Daemon’s temper?
“There. Done.” Daemon took a step back.
Lucivar rinsed the soap out of his hair, then turned to face his brother. Water poured over them, steamed around them. “Daemon . . .”
Daemon pressed a finger against Lucivar’s lips.
That light touch—and what he saw in Daemon’s eyes—told him he couldn’t stop whatever was coming.
“Whatever happens to the people in this valley is your decision, not mine,” Daemon said too softly. “I agree with that—and I’ll respect it. I expect you to do the same.”
“Meaning?”
“Don’t interfere with me taking care of my own.” Daemon turned and walked through the steam. “You should talk to Father before you go home. And be sure to put a healing salve on that cut.”
Lucivar turned off the water and hurried into the Keep. Once inside, he rubbed himself dry with the warm towels that had been left floating just inside the door.
The cold that made him shiver had nothing to do with the weather.
Dressed and polished, Daemon waited for Geoffrey in the private section of the Keep’s library.
... There was no reason for any of them to think my ankles would be any more vulnerable than theirs. Especially the left ankle . . .
“But there was a reason, brother,” Daemon whispered. “There was a reason.”
“Prince Sadi?”
Daemon turned at the sound of Geoffrey’s voice, then took a moment to consider the degree of wariness in the historian/librarian’s black eyes. He smiled—and saw Geoffrey’s inability to completely hide the shiver caused by that smile.
“I need your assistance,” he said, still smiling.
“In what way?” Geoffrey asked.
“The map you showed me the other day? I’d like to see it again.”
FOURTEEN
Surreal stared at Daemon and tried to decide how badly she would get hurt if she hit him.
Badly enough, since he didn’t look like he was in an indulgent mood.
“That’s it?” she snarled. “Falonar just gets sent away like some little prick who played a nasty joke? He set Lucivar up to die on that killing field. You know that!”
“Of course I know that,” Daemon snarled back. “The whole damn valley knows that. Or suspects it. Why do you think the remaining Eyriens have made such a pointed effort to let the Queens in Ebon Rih know they serve Lucivar, they support Lucivar, they want to live in this valley because it is ruled by Lucivar?”
Her room at The Tavern was a comfortable size, but now she needed to move, pace, do something, and Sadi was clogging up too damn much space.
“Lucivar has decided not to execute Falonar, and there is nothing we can do about that,” Daemon said.
“When the sun shines in Hell.” She paced in what little space was available without getting too close to Daemon. “Falonar is always going to be a knife aimed at Lucivar’s back. You know that.”
“I know a great many things,” Daemon replied. “And one of the things I know is that there is nothing we can do about Falonar while he is still in Lucivar’s territory.”
Surreal stopped pacing. What she saw in his eyes was the reason she feared him, cared about him, and trusted him to help her protect whatever she held dear.
“According to Lucivar, there is no real proof that Falonar was behind the attack,” she said, watching Daemon.
“That is correct. Or at least there is no proof that Lucivar is willing to share.”
“Does someone else have proof that Falonar was involved in the attack on Lucivar?”
“Yes.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Nothing. Chaosti is coming to the Keep tomorrow to escort you to Dea al Mon. Go with him. Spend time with your mother’s people.”
“Is that what you’re going to do? Nothing?”
The Sadist smiled. “Prince Falonar and I have some personal business to settle—after he leaves Ebon Rih.”
Something about his smile dared her to ask—and something about that smile warned her against asking.
“I guess I should pack,” she said. “Get ready for tomorrow.”
Daemon hesitated, then asked, “Do you want to see Lucivar before you leave?”
She thought about Yaslana in the sparring circle, pushing her so that she could release the last bit of anger and emotional venom—leaving himself open to a blow that must have hurt like a wicked bitch because she needed to strike that blow. And then she thought of Lucivar stepping on that killing field—one man against so many warriors who’d had just as much training, if not half the natural talent or power—with his ribs already banged up and hurting, probably taking hits he could have avoided if he hadn’t already been hurt.
Her temper flashed like heat lightning.
The dresser exploded. She couldn’t tell whether Daemon had expected her to lash out or if his reflexes were that fast, but the Black shield that snapped up between them and the dresser prevented injuries—and minimized the damage to the rest of the room.
“He’s an arrogant prick who thinks he’s invulnerable!” she shouted. “The only reason I’d want to see him right now is to rip off his balls and stuff them up his nose!”
Daemon blinked.
She looked at the chunks of dresser now scattered on the floor and shrieked. “And look what he did! My clothes were still in that dresser!”
“It’s not his fault you killed the dresser,” Daemon said mildly.
“Oh, don’t you get ballsy with me. Don’t you dare.”
Daemon blinked again—and took a step toward the door. “Fine. I’ll tell Lucivar you’ll talk to him in a few weeks.”
“You do that. And you can tell him that as soon as I figure out what was destroyed, I’m going to buy two of everything and send him the bill!”
Daemon didn’t waste time leaving, but she still heard it before he completely closed the door—that choked effort not to laugh.
“Rip off my balls and stuff them up my nose?” Resigned to giving his body another day of rest, Lucivar wandered over to a window. Jillian was out there, playing some kind of game with Daemonar and Alanar, Endar’s son.