The Shadow Queen

eyes, old son. When he did, Daemon felt the ground shift under him just a little.
    “It is not always a pleasure to work in an aristo house,” Beale said. “Even among the Blood, sometimes the employer forgets that the servant is also a person.”
    What are you driving at, Beale?
    “The High Lord was an excellent employer. No man who worked on any of his estates or in any of his houses needed to fear that he would be cornered into doing something that would smear his reputation, perhaps irreparably. No woman needed to fear the males around her during the days when she was vulnerable. The High Lord took care of his own. Always.” Beale paused. “And so do you. The small courtesies have not gone unnoticed by those who work for you, and the feeling of safety is still here.”
    “I appreciate you telling me.” But they hadn’t gotten to the point of this conversation.
    “You take care of your own, Prince.” Beale tapped a finger against his own chest. “So do we. Which is why, when you need to visit the Provinces from now on, the nearest residence that belongs to the SaDiablo family will be ready to accommodate you.”
    “The residences are always ready. . . .” No, Daemon realized. It wasn’t about the houses. It was about him. It was about staying in a place where he wouldn’t have to be on guard all the time. It was about having servants around him that he could trust.
    It was about other people—one Lady in particular—being safe around him because he felt safe.
    “I should give you a raise,” Daemon said, not sure if he felt grateful or embarrassed.
    “You already pay me quite well,” Beale said with a little smile as he left the room.
    A few minutes later, dressed in trousers and a dressing gown, Daemon was down in his study listening to the barely coherent report of a murder. When he left the study, he found Jaenelle waiting for him in the great hall, with Beale and the footman Holt in watchful attendance.
    “Have one of the Coaches brought round to the landing web,” Daemon told Beale.
    “I’ll do that,” Holt said, looking at Beale.
    Beale nodded. “I’ll ask Mrs. Beale to prepare something you can eat on the way.”
    When the two men headed for their assigned tasks, Daemon led Jaenelle into the informal receiving room.
    “Problem?” Jaenelle asked.
    “The bitch who tried to play with me has been murdered,” Daemon replied.
    “That didn’t take long,” she muttered.
    “Apparently it’s how she died that’s causing alarm. The host’s wife has also been injured, but I don’t have a clear idea of how or how badly. I have to go there.” He could keep his pride or he could ask for what he needed. “Come with me.”
    Her smile was gentle and teasing. “You want me to come as your escort and protect you from all the nasty witchlings?”
    “Yes, I do.”
    Her smile faded.
    Did she understand what it cost him to ask?
    Of course she did. She was Witch. In some ways, she knew him better than he knew himself.
    She placed a hand against his cheek, a touch full of comfort. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Prince. I’ll stand as your sword and shield when you need it if you’ll do the same for me.”
    He pressed a kiss into her palm. “I’ll take that bargain. Gladly.”
    She stepped back. “Find out as much as you can, then ask Beale to slip that Warlord the sedative I prepared. I don’t think either of us wants to ride in a Coach with a hysterical man, and I could feel him losing control even before I came downstairs. I’ll pack some clothes and ask Jazen to pack a bag for you.”
    She was about to open the door when Daemon said, “Jaenelle, they think it was me.” She didn’t turn to look at him. She froze in place, listening. “Rhea sent her man here to ask for help because everyone in that aristo Warlord’s house is more than scared. The Warlord who brought the message is afraid to say as much as he knows, but I got the impression that there’s something about the way Vulchera died that . . . They think they’re asking for help from the same man who killed her.”
    “It wasn’t you,” Jaenelle said, finally turning to look at him. “May the Darkness have mercy on her, because it wasn’t you.”
    She looked pale, and that confirmed his own suspicion. And the worry that went hand in hand with that suspicion.
    “I’ll get packed,” she said.
    He went back to his study and reviewed the information with the Warlord again but didn’t learn more than he had gleaned the first time. Leaving the man in Beale’s care, he returned to his suite