Twilight’s Dawn (The Black Jewels #9)(7)
Author: Anne Bishop

“I have them.” Marcus hesitated. “May I make a suggestion?”

“This seems to be the day for them,” Daemon said dryly. “Go ahead.”

“You should hire a secretary.”

“Feeling overworked, Marcus?”

“A bit, but that’s not the point. I take care of your investments and check on the property you personally own here in Kaeleer, and you have the firm that worked with your father looking after the rest of the investments for the SaDiablo family, but I think you need someone who can help you take care of day-to-day business. Someone with sufficient rank and polish to be your representative at the SaDiablo estates or at a Queen’s court. The High Lord, I believe, had your elder brother, Mephis, working in that capacity. You should consider hiring someone for the position.”

Daemon almost dismissed the idea out of hand. Then he realized he already had someone working for him who would fit the criteria—if Prince Rainier was willing to take on that kind of work.

“I’ll think about it.”

Marcus looked surprised and pleased—until they heard the jingling and howling outside the study door. Then he looked like he’d swallowed something sour.

“Is there something else I should be aware of?” Daemon asked.

Marcus shook his head and wouldn’t meet his eyes.

Concerned now, he pushed. “Your wife and daughter? They’re well?”

“Yes.” Marcus glanced at the study door and winced.

Daemon weighed what he knew about Marcus’s girl against what was outside the study door and asked innocently, “Have you finished your shopping for Winsol? Gotten all your gifts?”

Marcus shifted uncomfortably. “My daughter wants a puppy, but we haven’t decided on the breed—or if we’re going to get one at all,” he added hurriedly.

Fortunately, Holt brought in the tray of coffee and baked goods. Daemon focused his attention on the tray and hoped his expression would be mistaken for eagerness to indulge in the treats.

“You’ll be coming by again before Winsol Night, won’t you?” he asked, working to keep his voice neutral. “Why don’t you bring your daughter with you the next time?”

Apparently he hadn’t kept his voice neutral enough, because Marcus’s hand froze over the plate and he looked up, alarmed.

“No,” Marcus said. “She’s been hinting that she’d like to have a kindred Sceltie live with us, but I don’t need a bundle of fur that could end up being the highest-ranking member of the household.”

Considering the Sceltie pups who were still in residence, that was a distinct possibility.

“Think of the advantages of having a playmate who could also be a good protector,” Daemon soothed. “And I would consider it a personal favor if you brought her with you to look at the pups. Consider it a gift from you to me. Besides, just because your daughter sees the puppies doesn’t mean she’ll take to any of them.” Or that any of them will take to her.

Marcus said words that were not in keeping with the spirit of the season. Then he ate two fruit tarts and a nutcake, wiped his hands on a napkin, and opened his leather case, a clear indication that they were changing the subject.

They worked steadily through the lists of people employed by the SaDiablo family, with Daemon mostly confirming the amount Marcus suggested for each bonus. Neither said a word when Daemon doubled the amount of Marcus’s bonus. After all, at this time of year, it would be rude to call a bribe a bribe.

Marcus sighed as he put all the papers back in his leather case. “I’ll send on the packets to the other houses, and bring the packet for the Hall myself.”

“And you’ll bring your daughter?”

“I’ll bring her.” Marcus sighed again. “You drive a hard bargain, Prince.”

Daemon smiled. “It could have been worse, Marcus.”

“How?”

“She could have asked for a cat.”

FOUR

“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?”