The Shadow Queen

to a darker blue, a sapphire blue that became a doorway to something dangerous, something feral. Something he couldn’t name but knew he didn’t want to see.
    “This is the Warlord Prince Theran Grayhaven, from Dena Nehele,” Daemon said. “He hasn’t said, but I believe he can trace his bloodline back to Jared, a Warlord I knew a few centuries ago.”
    “Jared,” she said in a voice that made Theran shiver. “And Lia?”
    Afraid to answer—and more afraid not to—Theran nodded.
    He couldn’t look away from those sapphire eyes.
    Then her eyes were simply blue again. “Welcome to the Hall, Prince Grayhaven.”
    Maybe it was because he was getting used to the feel of being in a room with Sadi that he was finally getting some sense of the woman.
    A Queen. He felt certain she was a Queen. That caste had a distinctive psychic scent. But he couldn’t figure out if she wore a lighter Jewel or a dark one. She seemed to circle around his own Green, feeling lighter one moment and darker the next.
    Your wits must still be addled, he thought. The Blood had a Birthright Jewel and a Jewel of rank, and each had a clear, separate feel. Since surviving could sometimes depend on knowing if the person you were facing wore a darker Jewel than your own, conflicting information like he was picking up from the woman could prove deadly.
    “Prince Grayhaven,” Daemon said,“this is my wife, the Lady Jaenelle Angelline.”
    “It is a pleasure, Lady.”
    A horse bugled, a sound full of annoyance, followed a moment later by hooves thundering down on a hard surface.
    Jaenelle hitched a thumb over her shoulder. “My ride is getting impatient.”
    Theran wondered why anyone would bring a horse into the great hall—and wondered why the animal had sounded so loud—but he didn’t get a chance to ask.
    “Have a seat,” Daemon said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”
    Grateful to be alone,Theran scrubbed his hands over his face. After the past few minutes, he needed a long walk or a cold shower—or both.

    As Daemon escorted Jaenelle into the great hall, he lightly touched the stallion’s mind. *I need to talk to the Lady before you go riding.*
    The stallion, wearing a hackamore and barely enough leather to be called a saddle, tossed his head, revealing the Gray Jewel that was usually hidden under his forelock.
    Nighthawk was kindred—the name given to the Blood who were not human. A different body and a different race, but a Warlord Prince was still a Warlord Prince, and those who had chosen Jaenelle as their Queen had learned to work together and share their Lady. In most ways.
    *Theran Grayhaven,* Daemon said on a psychic thread aimed exclusively at Jaenelle. *What do you think of him?*
    *Why does it matter?*
    *He’s come here to ask a favor. I can hear him out or show him the door.*
    When she looked at him, he saw who she was beneath the surface: Witch. The living myth. Dreams made flesh. The Queen, even though she no longer ruled.
    *I spun a tangled web this afternoon,* she said. *That’s why I want to go riding—to let my mind rest while I focus on something physical.* She paused. *He’s part of it, Daemon. So is his connection to Jared and Lia. Hopefully a good gallop will clear my head and help me understand the vision.*
    *Then I’ll hear him out and arrange to have him stay with us for the night.*
    Jaenelle nodded.
    *So,* Daemon said. *You’re riding Nighthawk this afternoon. Are you riding me tonight?*
    “Daemon!”
    The combination of shock and laughter in her voice told Beale, the footman Holt, and even the horse what they’d been talking about. The color blazing in her cheeks when she realized she’d said his name out loud in that tone of voice confirmed whatever assumptions the other males had.
    “I was just asking,” Daemon said, trying to sound meek instead of amused—or aroused.
    He glanced at Beale, whose mouth had curved in a tiny smile despite the otherwise stern expression.
    Mother Night, he was going to have to tell the butler not to arrange for an intimate dinner. Under the intimidating exterior, Beale was a romantic and wouldn’t hesitate to exile Theran to a guest room and a dinner provided on a tray so that Lady Angelline could have a private dinner with her lover, who was also her adoring husband. And since he liked the idea of a private dinner much better than entertaining a man who had angered his father, he had to nip that idea before it took root. At least for tonight.
    And apparently his thoughts had been a little too apparent,