Anne Bishop - Twilight's Dawn

“I don’t remember you and the High Lord having a private celebration,” he said.

“We didn’t these past two years. He stepped aside. For you.”

“I see,” Daemon said quietly. And he did. The Steward yielding to the Consort. The father yielding to the lover. The fact that he was the lover must have weighed heavily in Saetan’s decision.

He looked at their reflection in the glass. It was like watching Jaenelle delicately unwrap layers of her heart.

“What else?” he asked.

“Those years were a dazzle of people during Winsol,” she said. “A kaleidoscope of colors and faces. Even more so after I became the Queen of Ebon Askavi and had my own list of social events to attend as part of my duties as Queen. But the moment I remember clearly, the moment that stands out from each of those years, is that dance with Saetan.”

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”

He saw her lips press together in a tight line, could feel her breath shudder in and out. He held her and waited, watching their reflection.

“One day I’m going to wake up and realize I’ve gotten old.” She lifted her left hand. “You knew when you gave me this ring what the difference in our races would mean.”

“Some people spend a few years together and then part for one reason or another. Others have a few decades. And other people have a lifetime. I know what the difference in our races means, Lady. I’ll take every day that you’re willing to give me.”

She nodded. “That’s the point. You have social duties. We have social duties. But I don’t want these days to be a blur of events and faces. I want memories, Daemon. Of you. Of us. I want those clear moments that the heart holds on to. With you.”

“And with him.”

“Yes. With him too. You waited seventeen hundred years for the Queen you wanted to serve. Saetan waited fifty thousand.”

“A few days out of this celebration for just the two of us? That’s really what you want?”

“Yes, that’s really what I want.”

Something inside him relaxed. He kissed her temple. “Then that’s what we’ll do. And we can start with this.” He called in a rectangular box and held it out.

Jaenelle shook her head and turned as she took a step away from him. “We open the gifts on Winsol.”

Daemon smiled a very special smile—and watched her blush in response to it. “You need to open this one now so you can plan ahead for when you’ll use it.”

She hesitated, then took the box and opened it.

Watching her, he swallowed the urge to laugh and wondered how long she would stare at that little bit of nothing.

Finally she lifted the triangle of richly embroidered gold fabric out of the box. “What . . . ?”

“The ribbons circle your hips,” he said helpfully.

“Oh.” She vanished the box and held the triangle in position. “Oh.”

Seeing that bit of nothing in place, even held over a bulky winter robe, was enough to make his blood simmer.

“I thought we could have a private dinner sometime during Winsol,” Daemon said. “You could wear that under the dress you had made for our dance in the spooky house. Nothing but that.”

Even the thought of seeing her in that wisp of a dress made his cock hard.

Blushing and still looking baffled, she said, “This is my present?”

He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, leaving her in no doubt about the kind of memories he wanted to make tonight.

“No, lover,” he purred. “This is my present.”

On the third day of Winsol, Daemon walked into Lucivar’s eyrie and caught the boy who half leaped, half flew at him.

“Unka Daemon!”

He gave Daemonar a smacking kiss on the cheek. “Hello, boyo. Are you being good?”

He and the boy both ignored the snarl that came from the kitchen in response to that question.

“You read me a story?” Daemonar asked.

“I guess we could read a story after—”

“You read me a story now?”

“Let me ask your papa.”

“We gotta tree. I show you!”

The boy was damn hard to hold on to once he started wiggling. Daemon put him down and watched him run to the other end of the room where another Craft-made tree sparkled.

“Look, Unka Daemon!”

Before Daemon could growl “No,” Daemonar kicked at the wrapped presents.

Nothing happened.

Then the front door opened, Marian and Jaenelle walked in, and Daemonar raced to meet them. Since it didn’t look like he was going to go around his uncle, Daemon prudently got out of the way.

“Auntie J.! Auntie J.! We gotta tree!”

“I see that,” Jaenelle said, crouching to receive her hugs and kisses. “Do you like the tree I made for the eyrie?”

“Yes! I read you a story! I read you a story now!”

“Could we read a story after we eat?” Jaenelle asked. “I’m very hungry.”

“Okay!”

Marian smiled and held out a hand. Knowing better than to suggest that he could hang up his own coat, Daemon shucked off his overcoat and handed it to her before going into the kitchen.

“You put illusion spells of gifts around your tree?” Daemon asked Lucivar.

“The real gifts are at the Hall,” Lucivar said as he pulled a large casserole out of the oven and set it on the table.

“Why couldn’t we have the illusion-spell gifts?” Daemon grumbled.

“You can keep the real gifts until we open them on Winsol Night or you can keep the boy.”

“I’ll keep the gifts,” Daemon said too quickly.

“Smart choice.” Lucivar tipped his neck from side to side to ease the muscles. “Hell’s fire, he’s a handful this year.”

“I guess Marian won’t let you build a cage.”

“Not a chance. And whenever I growl about the boy, his grandfather laughs at me.”

“Seems petty of Father to do that.”

Lucivar used Craft to slice a loaf of bread and put it and the butter on the table. “You know what’s really scary? The times when Father looks at me and says, ‘You were worse.’ Makes me wonder if I’m getting off easy or if I should start preparing.” He finished setting the table. “Marian and I usually have ale with this meal since it goes well with the casserole, but I can open a bottle of wine for you.”

“Ale is fine.”

As Lucivar filled glasses, he said, “How is Yuli? That’s where you were this morning, wasn’t it? At that school?”

Yuli was an orphan boy he and Jaenelle met while rescuing Surreal and Rainier from Jarvis Jenkell’s spooky house.

“He’s doing well. Still too afraid of making a mistake and being severely punished for it to relax most of the time—at least, according to the teachers—but Socks isn’t afraid of voicing an opinion about anything, so the Sceltie pup balances out the boy.” Daemon looked around. “Speaking of pups, where are the wolves?”

“Off doing wolf things, thank the Darkness.” Lucivar raised his voice. “Food’s on the table.”

Jaenelle and Marian sat on one side of the table, the boy between them. Daemon and Lucivar sat on the other. As the adults talked about small things, Daemon became more and more aware that the boy was too excited by the company and all the festivities, and his misbehavior was going to clash with Lucivar’s temper soon.

Then Jaenelle spoke one quiet sentence in Eyrien, and Daemon saw the proof that Daemonar had made the transition from toddler to boy in the past few weeks. Because Daemonar’s reaction to that voice wasn’t a nephew responding to an aunt; it was a Warlord Prince responding to his Queen.

Daemonar quieted and began eating properly, glancing often at his father for approval and confirmation that he was behaving as he should.