EIGHT
1
Baffled by the worried glances he’d gotten from the servants and too restless to stay inside, Daemon left the town house shortly after breakfast, walking aimlessly until the shops opened. Then he headed for the bookshop where he could fill an hour or two browsing. Since love stories had lost their appeal, maybe he could find something else Jaenelle would find intriguing—and find something for himself that would catch his interest enough to keep him occupied while he waited for some word from Surreal.
After she left for the Hall yesterday morning, he’d summoned Marcus and had exhausted the energy and patience of his man of business by reviewing every possible business transaction that might come up in the next few weeks. If Surreal succeeded in finding out what was troubling Jaenelle, if she actually managed to fix the problem so that Jaenelle wanted his company again, he wasn’t going to allow anything to intrude on his time with his Lady.
But he needed to keep busy until he heard from her—or from Jaenelle. Maybe he’d contact Lucivar and invite him to dinner. Or go to the Keep and spend a few hours with his father. He’d been choking on his fear of losing Jaenelle but had said nothing to anyone except Surreal. Now . . . Maybe he should get another male’s opinion? But Lucivar would be too blunt and probably have the unfortunate effect of honing a temper that didn’t need honing. Saetan, however, might be able to offer an insight into Jaenelle’s emotional retreat . . . or even an assurance that it was a stage of healing and would pass. Maybe . . . Maybe even talking to Saetan about the nightmare that kept plaguing him might help, although lately, the erotic dreams were giving him more physical and emotional discomfort.
Shaking off those thoughts, he entered the bookshop and smiled at the owner—and wondered why the man’s eyes cooled at the sight of him and the usual smile of greeting looked forced.
“Prince Sadi.” The shopkeeper sounded like he’d swallowed glass. “You’ve come for the books I was holding for you?”
“Yes—and a few others,” Daemon replied, starting to turn away from the counter to browse the shelves. He’d give the love stories to Marian. She and Jaenelle often exchanged books, so he knew she’d enjoy them.
“Very well.”
The reluctance in the shopkeeper’s voice stopped Daemon and had him turning back to study the man.
He doesn’t want me here, Daemon thought, stung by the unexpected reaction to his presence.
Feeling a hint of ice brush the edge of his temper, he walked to a part of the shop where the shelves hid the shopkeeper from view. For the sake of past, and possibly future, courtesy, it was better to keep his distance until the desire to shred the shopkeeper’s skin passed. After all, the man could be upset about something that had nothing to do with him.
Dismissing the shopkeeper for the time being, he began perusing the shelves of fiction, skipping over the love stories and straightforward adventures, and finally stopping at a section that looked interesting.
Pulling a book from the shelf, he read the first page and choked back a laugh. By the time he got to the fourth page, he was leaning comfortably against the shelves and grinning. The heroine was a Blood female named Tracker, a musician by trade, whose companion was a Purple Dusk Sceltie Warlord named Shadow. The village they lived in was clearly modeled on the village of Maghre, and the Warlord who ruled the village and requested their assistance in solving a mystery . . .
Did Khardeen know about these stories? He’d send Khary a brief note this evening. It would be a good way to respond to the note he’d received from the Warlord of Maghre last week. Khary’s note had been nothing more than a few sentences about horses, but he’d understood the significance of the note coming to him rather than Jaenelle. His actions during the time Jaenelle needed to create her spells to save Kaeleer had broken the friendships that had developed between him and the other males in Jaenelle’s First Circle. Since then, they’d all been coldly civil with him. Khary’s note was the first sign of any willingness to try to repair those friendships.
Closing the book, Daemon checked the shelves and found two others by the same author that featured Tracker and Shadow. He took those, too. Even if the mystery part of the story didn’t end up being sufficiently compelling, the author’s understanding of human-kindred relationships was certainly entertaining.
As he crouched to look at another book, he heard two women, speaking in low, urgent tones, walk up to the other side of the shelves.
“It’s true, I tell you,” one woman said.
“I don’t believe it,” the other replied, sounding oddly defiant. “And accusing a man of infidelity without proof is irresponsible.”
“He was seen, in public, with the bitch he’s bedding. How much more proof do you need?”
“I’d heard she was his cousin.”
“Her being one thing doesn’t exclude her being the other.”
A hesitation. “No. I’m certain this is all a dreadful misunderstanding. You only had to look at him last winter to see he was in love with his Queen. He wouldn’t betray her now.”
“We’ll see,” the first woman said darkly.
Her companion sighed. “Did you want a book from this section?”