“Oh, my.” She patted a hand over her heart, looking flustered. “I’ve never heard of you being much of a flirt.”

“I only flirt with those who would appreciate it for what it is and not expect anything more.”

Because anyone who expected more would find themselves facing the Sadist, the cruelest and most lethal side of Daemon’s temper, Lucivar thought.

“Well, gossip that reaches a coastal town is a bit like storm wrack,” Perzha said. “A lot of debris gets thrown onto the shore, but not much is worth anything unless it happens to be the thing you’re looking for.” She gave them a brilliant smile. “Who do you want to know about?”

* * *

* * *

An hour later, when members of Perzha’s First Circle kept showing up every five minutes, broadly hinting that their Queen needed to rest, what with her having an allergy to the sun and all, Daemon and Lucivar walked back to the landing web at the edge of the village.

“Hell’s fire,” Lucivar said. “How does she know so much about aristos in other villages? Why does she know so much?” She hadn’t known anything about that prick-ass Dillon, but he felt confident now that she would find out everything he wanted to know.

“She’s an eccentric Queen from a little village with a weird name, so people forget that she wears a Red Jewel and can wipe the floor with most of them.” Daemon called in a pen and a thin leather binder that held a sheaf of paper. “Want to bet the gossip about this place is that there have been other Queens over the generations since Lady Perzha ruled here, but a condition of a First Circle forming an official court around the new Queen is that she take the name Perzha, at least for her public identity, and use an illusion spell to look like the late beloved Queen?”

“No bet. It sounds like something the people here would do.”

“Since they would want sufficient warning if someone figured out the deception, I would also wager that some of her court are very good at ferreting out information about anyone of interest anywhere in Askavi.”

If they were that good, they should have remembered that I knew Perzha was demon-dead, Lucivar thought. They should have known that Daemon wouldn’t force her to go to Hell. Our family, more than anyone, understands the difference between refusing to let go and still being needed.

Then he felt a chill when he realized Daemon was making notes about this visit. “What are you doing?”

“That yarbarah Perzha was drinking is the equivalent of rough whiskey made in a still. Worse, the stuff was putrid. If she’s going to stay in Little Weeble, she should be drinking something better to sustain the flesh and her power. So I’m giving Holt instructions to have regular deliveries made from the SaDiablo vineyards.” Daemon looked at Lucivar. “Do you have any objections?”

He shook his head. “If I’d known she was sustaining herself by drinking swill, I would have supplied her with yarbarah myself. Hell’s fire, if it mattered so much for her to stay, why did her court give her shit to drink?”

Daemon finished making notes and vanished the pen and leather binder. “They probably never tasted it and didn’t know how disgustingly bad the stuff was—and Perzha didn’t tell them because they were afraid of losing her. The First Circle who had been serving her when she died knew that Saetan knew about her. He would have insisted she consume properly blended yarbarah. But that would have been what? Two, three Rihlander generations ago? The oldest men serving her now would have been boys, if they’d been born yet.”

“So after Father returned to the Darkness, they didn’t continue whatever arrangement was made.” Lucivar swore softly. “Even if she didn’t want to approach you, she could have said something to me.”

“Maybe this is a very recent decline in the quality of what they are purchasing—or in the quality of what they are now receiving—but they still believe they’re providing her with a decent vintage.”

They looked at each other.

Daemon called in the binder and pen and made another note.

It wasn’t for show. Holt would be given part of the assignment to gather information about any vineyard making yarbarah. But the High Lord of Hell had other sources of information, and if someone had been substituting a bad vintage for a good one, Lucivar would kill the bastard’s body—and Daemon would take care of the rest.

TWENTY-TWO

Jillian walked into the Yaslana eyrie as Titian and Jaenelle Saetien dashed out of the kitchen. Titian looked equal parts curious and alarmed, but Jaenelle Saetien said in a singsong voice, “Daemonar’s in trouble.”

“Sounds like it,” Jillian agreed. Must be a morning for high drama, judging by the sounds coming from the kitchen.

The girls dashed down the corridor toward the playroom.

“I didn’t know Mother was saving it for something special,” Daemonar said, trying to sound like he had done something perfectly reasonable and not coming close. “And they were hungry.”

٭We’re very hungry,٭ a young-sounding male voice said.

٭And we didn’t want eggs and toast,٭ another male said.

٭And we already ate the oatmeal the girl pups didn’t want.٭ That voice was female.

“Which doesn’t excuse going into the cold box and taking a roast,” Daemon said sternly.

٭We didn’t take the roast,٭ the second male voice said. ٭Daemonar took the roast.٭

٭But he took it because we are very hungry,٭ the other male said.

“At home we have rules about taking things out of the cold box without asking,” Daemon said. “Not being home doesn’t mean you can forget the rules.”

٭We did a wrong thing?٭ The female sounded alarmed.

“No, you didn’t do a wrong thing. Daemonar made a mistake,” Daemon said.

Jillian tiptoed toward the kitchen. Not that she needed to get closer to hear everything. But she was curious about whom the voices belonged to. Young-sounding didn’t always mean young.

She peeked around one side of the archway that opened onto the kitchen.

Prince Sadi and Prince Yaslana were staring at Daemonar and three small dogs who were bunched around the boy’s feet.

Scelties. The ones who were vessels for the power that flowed in the blood were called kindred, and they wore Jewels and learned Craft just like the rest of the Blood.

She’d seen Scelties before, but that was years ago, and although she’d observed how the dogs had herded Mikal and Daemonar to keep the boys out of mischief, she’d never interacted with the Scelties herself.

“We’ll put it back.” Daemonar sounded sulky. “I was just trying to be a good host.”