Anne Bishop: Twilight's Dawn

“She could have asked for a cat.”

“Come in,” Daemon said, glancing up from the paperwork on his desk as the study door opened. Leaning back, he crossed his legs at the knees and steepled his fingers, resting two of his long black-tinted nails against his chin as he watched Rainier limp to the visitor’s chair and sit down with exaggerated care.

That autumn Rainier and Surreal SaDiablo, along with seven landen children, had been caught in a trap meant to kill members of the SaDiablo family.

The spooky house. Daemon still wasn’t sure whether it was arrogance or a kind of madness that had led a writer who had discovered his Blood heritage to try a pissing contest with the darkest-Jeweled Blood in the Realm. Realizing how close they’d all come to being caught in that trap had been a sobering lesson. If Lucivar hadn’t been an Eyrien warrior backed by the strength of his Ebon-gray Jewels, Surreal and Rainier wouldn’t have gotten out of that damn house. As it was, three of the children were killed, not to mention all the other people who had been killed so that they would be the predators in the game. Surreal had been wounded, and the poison still hadn’t worked its way out of her body completely. And Rainier . . .

He was a dancer , Daemon thought sadly. Then he added, Everything has a price.

“How’s the leg?” Daemon asked, even though anyone could see the healing wasn’t going the way it should. Hell’s fire, Rainier had been walking better a few weeks ago when he’d joined them for a viewing of Jaenelle and Marian’s spooky house, an entertainment for children that had been one of the reasons Jarvis Jenkell had created a deadly version of the place.

Rainier shrugged, but his face was pale and strained despite his effort to smile, and there was a fear in his green eyes that he couldn’t quite hide. “Some days it’s better than others. I wanted your opinion of something.”

Trying to change the subject, boyo? All right, I’ll let you lead this dance . For the moment.

Using Craft, Rainier called in a rectangular box and floated it over to the desk, placing it directly in front of Daemon.

Jewelry box, Daemon decided, leaning forward to study the flowers and leaves carved into the top. The box itself was excellent in craftsmanship and sufficient as a Winsol gift, so when he opened the lid, he whistled softly.

A gold metalwork gauntlet. Delicate-looking, if you ignored the talons on the ends of the articulated fingers. A weapon disguised as a pretty.

“It’s a Winsol gift for Surreal,” Rainier said. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“It’s beautiful and deadly,” Daemon replied. “She’ll love it.” He closed the box and returned it to Rainier before offering the man a brandy.

Something was wrong here. Very wrong.

Rainier had been a dance instructor for years. Hell’s fire, he’d been Jaenelle’s dance instructor—a young Warlord Prince who had been able to hold his own with Jaenelle and the coven of young Queens who had been her closest friends.

Now Rainier worked for him, and he paid the man a generous salary. But he recognized Banard’s work. The jeweler made some pieces that wouldn’t beggar an ordinary man’s pocket for a year, but that custom-made gauntlet wasn’t one of them.

What was Rainier trying to prove?

“What are your plans for Winsol?” Daemon asked.

“I’m going to Dharo to spend some time with my family,” Rainier replied, his smile looking sicker than before.

Why? Daemon wondered. They usually prefer that you keep your distance. Hadn’t Rainier made a family visit a few weeks ago? Right around the time when something began to go wrong with the healing of his leg?

“Unless there’s something you need from me,” Rainier added.

“No, I don’t—” A thought occurred to him, and he didn’t think he’d get an honest answer without inflicting some pain. So he would inflict the pain.

“It’s come to my attention that there is a traditional Winsol dance. It would be prudent for me to learn it.”

“Don’t look to me to teach you,” Rainier said. “I’m crippled.”

At least he didn’t have to dig for the bitterness festering inside the other Warlord Prince.

“And who do you blame for that, Rainier?” Daemon asked too softly, leaning back and steepling his fingers again.

“I don’t blame anyone,” Rainier snapped. “It happened.”

“Yes, it happened, because you did what you were supposed to do—defend and protect.”

“Not well enough. Three children died and Surreal got poisoned. I didn’t protect them well enough, and I lost . . .” He swallowed, obviously fighting not to say more. “I was a dancer. It’s all I’ve ever been. All I wanted to be. I’ll never be that again.”

“Are you sure?” Daemon asked.

“Yes, I’m sure!”

Daemon hesitated, but it had to be said. “Everything has a price, Prince Rainier. An escort’s life is always on the line.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? You were wounded in battle. It doesn’t matter what the battleground looked like; that’s the truth of it. You’re not the first man who’s had to rebuild his life because of battle scars. You won’t be the last.” Knowing that he wasn’t getting through to the man, Daemon unleashed some of his own frustration. “You could have lost your leg instead of losing some mobility. Hell’s fire, Rainier, you could have died in that place .”

“Maybe it would have been better if I had,” Rainier said softly.

Daemon felt his temper rise from the depth of his Black Jewel—sweet, cold, and deadly. Rainier wasn’t stupid. He knew who would be waiting for him if he got maudlin enough to commit suicide. The boy thought he had troubles now? Wait until Saetan got done explaining things to the fool—especially a fool who had helped himself become demon-dead sooner than he should have.

But it might explain Rainier buying a gift he really couldn’t afford. And Lucivar needed to be aware of that possibility.

“What’s the state of your finances?” Daemon asked.

Rainier blinked. Then color stained his cheeks. “Frankly, Prince Sadi, that’s none of your business.”

“I just made it my business. Do you want to find out how fast I can acquire every scrap of private information about you, or are you going to answer the question?”

Rainier squirmed. “I’m doing all right. I have some savings.”

“Your salary will continue, paid quarterly as usual,” Daemon said.

“For what?” Rainier let out a pained laugh. “There’s not much I can do.”

“I have some thoughts about that, but right now you can make some effort to heal.” Daemon put enough ice in his voice to have Rainier’s eyes fill with wariness. “I’ll take care of the rent on your apartment in Amdarh, as well as any other necessary expenses like food.”

“I don’t need your charity, and I don’t want your pity,” Rainier snapped.

“You’re not getting either, so shut up.” But it was becoming clear that someone was giving Rainier heavy doses of both, and those things could become more crippling than a damaged leg.

Daemon huffed out a sigh. “You’re going to have to come to terms with what you can do physically and what you can’t. I can’t help you with that, but I can make things easier for a while so that you can concentrate on healing. You’re a good Warlord Prince, Rainier, and a good escort. Too good to lose because you’re having trouble finding your balance.”

Another pained laugh. “That’s a good way of putting it.”

“After Winsol, you’ll be spending a few weeks in Ebon Rih with Lucivar.” And may the Darkness have mercy on you. “So I suggest you visit your family in Dharo and enjoy the festivities.”