Читать книгу Damien - Jacquelyn Frank - Страница 6

San Jose, California, Present Day

Damien’s head snapped up as he got the sudden sense that someone was very nearby. The sharp turn of his neck caused the braid at the base of his neck to snap like a whip against his throat.

It was nearly like pitch, the darkness around him was so black and so complete. There was no visible moon, leaving everything like a heavy blanket of suffocating velvet that those who considered themselves vulnerable might feel an urge to run away from. Even the glow of the streetlamps placed few and far between in the California suburb seemed helpless to penetrate this darkness.

However, the night did not bother Damien. Quite the opposite. It was his natural habitat, all of his senses equipped to work best within its folds. In spite of all that, something blew with alien chill down the back of his neck as this new presence crept within range of his perception.

He leaned back into the protective shadows of the foliage a little bit more as he realized it was not a human being that moved toward him with such near-perfect stealth. Normal humans were not capable of defying his senses so well that they could come this close before he became aware of them. So the Vampire Prince was left to wonder who, or what, it was that was following so stealthily in his footsteps.

He first had to determine if this was an accidental or purposeful tail. He exhaled, out of habit rather than a need to, shaking his head with momentary perturbation. All he had wanted to do that night was take part in a good hunt and then return to his holdings in peace. However, in order to have that sort of easy peace, he mused, one had to have no enemies.

Unfortunately, Vampires had a lot of enemies.

And the Prince of all Vampires usually had ten times the usual dose of them. Exterior politics and the number of annoying humans or troublemaking Nightwalkers aside, Vampires had an awful tendency to play King of the Mountain with one another. Though most knew better than to match skills with Damien, there were always a few who over-estimated their ability to unseat the royal Vampire from his throne. Theirs was a society where survival of the fittest was at the core of many of their motivations. In the case of the throne, it determined who would lead their entire species.

He should know, he thought with a sly half-smile that allowed the ivory of one anticipatory fang to glimmer in the darkness. Defeating the previous monarch was how Damien had come to be in his princely position several centuries ago.

But his predecessor had been something of a jackass, he mused as he waited idly for his stalker to catch up with him, and he had quite thoroughly earned his ritualistic beheading.

As he turned his senses to the task of making prey of his hunter, he was able to determine that it was not a Vampire that tracked him. All he needed to do to figure that out was flick into place the small nictitating membranes hidden in the anatomy of his eyes. That membrane added the ability to visualize a brightly fluoresced aura that varied with the amount of heat a body was giving off.

While Vampires did not have a natural circulation to speak of, they did retain the heat of the blood of their victims from one feeding to the next, able to maintain it well, provided they fed within twenty-four hours of the previous meal. However, the flaw to that system was that extremities like fingers and toes lost that artificial heat the quickest. So, in his visual perception, a Vampire who had not hunted yet would have a sort of bull’s-eye effect at this young hour of the night. The heart and chest would be the hottest, flaring bright and white, but in eddying circles that white would fade to a circle of red, then orange, then pink, until the location of hands and feet were almost imperceptible to heat vision, blending in too well with the temperature around them.

A Vampire who had hunted already would be a uniform red, unlike a human, who was a changing series of white, red, and redder splashes of determining color. Human heat levels were always changing, with movement, effort, sickness, or arousal, and there was a perceptible time period before the human body compensated for those changes, evening them out somewhat. However, those with the sharpest of eyes and skills could easily determine the difference between a flushed Vampire and a mortal being after a century or two of practice.

The figure that tracked him was neither human nor Vampire, he determined. However, it was potentially a Nightwalker who could emulate any level of body temperature they wished, or it was a Demon. The Demon race was notorious for a body temperature several degrees cooler than most upright walking species on the planet. This was the case in the body that stood in shadow not too far away from him.

The Nightwalker species were the races that lived only in the night, hiding from a curious variance of negative effects the sun caused them. Of these species, Demons were the second least likely to cause grief or pose a danger for the Vampire Prince. Demons were infamously moral and reclusive, focusing within themselves and upon policing their own, and were very much less likely to venture out in order to cause trouble elsewhere.

Usually.

There had been a bit of trouble lately that made anything possible.

Of course, it could be a Shadowdweller. Those devious little tricksters were the masters of self-camouflage. They were the Nightwalker equivalent of chameleons. They were also an enormous pain in the posterior, Damien thought wryly. They had little to no political structure, wandering around in clans or religious clusters, quite often causing more than their fair share of mischief and trouble. They were like wild children, pestering other Nightwalkers, scrapping amongst themselves and with others, mucking with mortals like they were toys and dolls for playing with.

Not that Damien failed to see the appeal in that. He had mucked around with humans and others quite a bit in his youth.

Well, perhaps youth was being too liberal.

To be honest, he was still quite easily capable of toying with the workings of the races around him, if it suited his mood. He chuckled to himself at that. Gideon, an old Demon friend of his, had once accused him of being a cosmic busybody. It was not all that far from the truth.

Before Damien would allow himself the luxury of believing that this Demon was a friend, he needed to turn the hunt around and surprise his quarry. If he lollygagged in the bushes much longer, the person tagging after him would realize he had become aware of being followed.

Unexpectedly, the shadow suddenly broke from its surroundings and headed straight in his direction.

The direct approach.

That meant one of two things. Incredible stupidity, or immeasurable fearlessness. As he switched to normal vision and picked out the features of the approaching figure, he realized it was the latter.

“Noah,” he said, breaking from the shadows himself to step up to the Demon King.

Noah smiled slightly, reaching out to take Damien’s quickly offered hand and shaking it firmly. The two monarchs then settled their weight evenly on their feet and regarded one another with quick, skilled eyes.

“What brings you to my hunting grounds, so far from home?” Damien asked, cutting to the chase. Noah’s holdings in England were a far cry from California, which was where Damien claimed his territory nowadays. It was not as though the King would be able to claim the likelihood of just passing by, since Demons were less frequently found in the United States. They were not enemies, though, which was clearly indicated by the fact that Damien asked his question first, rather than after trying to kill him.

Vampires were also very territorial.

“Call it a business matter,” Noah returned congenially. “My apologies for invading your mealtime.”

Damien waved the matter off with the flick of a long-fingered hand, the large ruby of the ring on his middle finger winking one of its facets at the Demon King.

“I had not acquired prey yet. It is no matter.”

“I had measured as much,” Noah returned.

The Demon King was a Fire Demon. Every Demon claimed a power and affinity with certain elements of the natural world around and within themselves. Fire was of course the most volatile and impressive of these elements. As such, Noah could sense energy patterns and, having lived over six centuries, had enough practice with them to know whether or not Damien had acquired a target for the night’s feeding.

Noah had earned his throne much in the way Damien had, only he had been elected to it because of his unquestionable strength and ability to be a leader. The previous Demon King had needed to die before that would happen. Of somewhat natural causes, too, because it was severely frowned on for Demons to battle or kill one another—though, being basically immortal, there was very little about the death of any member of either of their species that could be considered natural.

Usually it came down to some form of homicide. In that culture, however, it was unlikely a Demon would be elected King who had just murdered their predecessor. Demons took great affront to the murder of their monarchs.

Noah could also never be voted out of his office. Though the Great Council had elected him, they could not change their minds. His death would be the only way they could replace him with a successor. In less civilized times that had made it a very interesting prospect to be the King of Demons. Especially if the Great Council decided they had made a mistake and tried to assassinate the reigning monarch.

Then again, no Nightwalker race could ever be completely civilized. That was one of Damien’s firmer beliefs.

“So what is your business?” Damien asked, indicating with that same ringed hand that the King should walk beside him. They were in a quaint little development in the San Jose suburbs, the rows of houses on either side of them sitting quiet and dark, set back from perfectly manicured lawns and neat little sidewalks.

“The Library.”

Again, he cut right to the point of it. Damien liked that about Demons. They did not play social games, unless it suited some extraordinary purpose.

“Yes. The Library. I have not forgotten,” the Prince said. “What is it you would like?”

“Scholars from your society, to be blunt. We have no intention of keeping the mysteries of this hidden Nightwalker Library to ourselves. It is clearly a universal collection of many Nightwalker histories. We have not reentered the place since our initial discovery of it in the caverns in Lycanthrope territory. Neither have any of Siena’s people,” Noah said, smiling slightly when he mentioned the name of the Lycanthrope Queen who had recently wed the commander of his own armed forces. Elijah, the Captain of the Demon warriors, was clearly looked on fondly by his ruler.

“We…that is, Siena and I decided it would only be fair to invite you to join us when we send our scholars in to begin to research what the significance of this place is. Since none of us have ever seen its like before and it is obviously compiled of the languages of all the Nightwalker species, all Nightwalkers should have a fair chance of having a crack at it. On equal terms.”

“That is very fair of you. But I do not think I need to tell you that my people are not the scholarly type. Outside of our immediate political structure and my rather compact court, we are a nation of tribes. We run in small, independent packs, worry mostly about feeding, avoiding human hunters, and”—Damien gave Noah a feral grin—“seeking out sensuality. If we cannot consume it, kill it, or party with it, it does not interest us.”

Noah laughed at that. That basically described almost every Nightwalker race there was. However, the Demon King knew that the Vampires were the epitome of that particular stereotype. Vampiric boredom was a frightening thing to behold. A Vampire tended to cause a great deal of upheaval when not distracted or amused. Still, Damien had his own way of policing his species. It did not get too far out of hand in this day and age, as it sometimes had in the past.

Of course, that could have something to do with the fact that Damien had matured and had stopped leading his people into the fray.

“If I send anyone to you who is interested,” Damien said slowly, “they will no doubt have ulterior personal motives. Perhaps looking at this strange Library as a means of gaining power. There is nothing a Vampire enjoys more than gaining power. If I send someone who is not interested, the place will no doubt become a Vampire hangout until it loses its charm. They would only get in your way. No, it is best if we get any pertinent information from you and yours. Demon and Lycanthrope scholars are the best for this sort of task.”

“I figured you would say that, but I thought I should ask in any event. I am surprised that you are showing no personal interest.”

“On the contrary,” Damien contradicted. “I am eaten up with curiosity. A joint Library with books in languages from so many of the Nightwalker species has intriguing implications. The one I find most curious is how we all managed to get in the same room long enough to even think of constructing such a place, never mind filling it as full as it was when we first saw it. It hints at curious histories so long past that even we who are so long-lived do not recall their origins. It flirts with the idea that we Nightwalkers may have more common origins than we would ever have suspected. It also opens the potential of pissing off a few of the elitist purists all of our races seem to have, arrogant, prejudiced bastards that we are. It is bound to cause trouble.”

“And I know how much you enjoy trouble,” Noah remarked wryly.

“I admit it, I do.” Damien chuckled. “I am certain I will be seen snooping around your workers from time to time. Otherwise, I will instruct Horatio to attend your meetings and recaps of your discoveries. He will report back to me.”

“Horatio?” This time Noah laughed. “Now there is an unlikely student. Diplomats make poor scholars. Sometimes history and recorded data is too factual for them. Too biased. They prefer to give too much the benefit of the doubt. Everything would be propaganda to Horatio.”

“Just the same, he is already a fixture of your court. That will make it easier. There is also Kelsey. She is taking in the delights of Siena’s court at the moment. Between them both and my occasional check-ins, I imagine I will get a fashionable form of the truth of the goings-on.”

“Very well,” Noah conceded. “But let me know if you change your mind.”

“I rarely do.”

“I realize this,” Noah said. The other man stopped walking and they reached to shake hands once again. “Thank you for your time, Damien. I hope you will come to the naming celebration?”

“When is your sister due to give birth?”

“Within another month or two. Normally a Demon female would go a full thirteen months to term, but Gideon feels his son is very eager to make an appearance. Between that and Magdelegna’s strong desire to finish this pregnancy, I have no doubt I will be an uncle again very shortly.”

“Wish her well for me. I look forward to Horatio’s news of the birth.”

Noah gave him a nod, stepped back, and in a heartbeat became a twisting column of smoke that stayed in the shape of the tall, broad-shouldered man for several seconds before stretching out to the sky where it was lost to the night.

Damien followed the Demon King’s retreat with his other senses for a moment before he turned his attention back to the task of seeking his supper.

Syreena hit the ground with a loud grunt, the impact of her body and the hard exhalation of her breath kicking up a cloud of dust that, upon her next breath, promptly entered her lungs. She coughed, spat blood from her mouth, and then twisted up onto her hands in order to glare at the person who had hit her.

Actually, she should say persons.

They were The Three.

And she had crossed them badly.

“Get up, child,” the central robed figure commanded her.

She did so, drawing her slim legs beneath herself so she could push off from the dirt floor. She tossed back her hair, the two-toned tangles mixing iron gray and soft brown together for a moment before parting into uniform-colored sheets on either side of her head. They parted perfectly into a straight fall on one side and a feathered softness on the other. Her eyes flashed with anger. They were also one gray and one brown; however, they had the disconcerting position of being on the opposing sides of the hair color that would match them. The harlequin effect was always eerie, but in outrage it was downright disturbing.

“I am not a child,” she snapped at them, defying the fear of The Three that had been instilled in her from a young age. “I will not apologize for my actions now or ever, even if you beat me to a pulp. So you may as well reconcile yourself to it.”

“Your insubordination is untenable, Syreena. This is not how you were raised.”

“I know how I was raised,” she barked back, spitting once more before wiping the back of her hand across her lips. “I am no longer beholden to The Pride, Silas, and I have not been for fifteen years. If you recall, you are the ones who rejected me, who threw me out and into the Lycanthrope court so I could serve my sister.”

“You were not rejected, Syreena. You were reassigned. Monks of The Pride serve dual relationships all of the time in the world. Why must it be one or the other with you? You are a Monk and you are the Queen’s advisor.”

“And I am a Princess,” she reminded them. “A member of the royal family. Though my sister defers to your wisdom and protocols on occasion, she still holds reign over you as she does any member of the Lycanthrope race. That power is also mine now. You told me it was time to take up my mantle of royalty, and now you punish me for doing so!”

“We punish you,” the figure on the left retorted, “because you attacked one of your brothers without cause.”

“That pompous jackass dared question my sister’s survival when she was on the edge of death. She was poisoned so badly by the sun, gasping as if every breath were her last, and he insults her, belittles her efforts toward a peace she was willing to sacrifice her life for! I would, and I will do it again if anyone—”

“No one puts their hands on a member of The Pride!” Silas barked at her, showing the first ruffle in his exterior calm since the entire incident between them had begun.

“Oh, you mean like you did not just lay hands on me?” she countered. “Do as I say, and not as I do? That may have worked when I was a child, but I am an adult now. A well-seasoned adult—I thank you, your training has done me well. I warn you, Silas, if you raise your hand to me one more time, you will learn what it is I have held in check through my teachings all of these years, just as Konini and Hendor did when they disrespectfully disparaged my family. You got your lick in. Be satisfied with it and move on. You will not drag me to heel this time. You never will again. Those days are past.”

The Princess was not making an idle threat. Silas was well aware of what she was capable of, and just as aware of what he did not know she was capable of. No one would ever know that but Syreena herself, no matter that she had spent the past century under the tutelage of the best minds and members of The Pride.

Syreena was a Lycanthropic anomaly. The cure to a childhood illness had left her dramatically mutated. Once she had hit puberty, she had developed into a Lycanthrope without equal.

Every Lycanthrope could exist in three forms of themselves. The human aspect, the aspect of whatever animal it was that ran through their blood, and a human-shaped combination of the two called the Wereform.

Syreena had been given an additional two aspects, a split that took on the form and Wereform of an additional animal. This gave her a position of precedence. No one truly knew where her abilities ended. No one but herself. While it intrigued everyone, even tempted them, none were all that willing to challenge her to her limits.

So even though The Three were the most feared and most powerful Monks of The Pride, Syreena was not surprised when they relented. It came in the form of Silas turning on his heel in displeased silence and marching out of the discipline room, the remaining two following silently in his wake.

Syreena exhaled in frustrated anger. She was not known for her temper, but it did not mean that she did not have one. In fact, she had been bred from temperamental stock. It was only her teachings and meditations that had allowed her to escape the infamy of the royal warlike tendencies. To be fair, her sister had escaped them as well. Siena was even renowned as a peacekeeper. Understandably, there was a distinct difference between Siena’s politics and her personality. That was evident in the fact that she had chosen a diehard warrior for her husband.

Syreena remained in the dungeon room of the monastery, pacing the floor in an effort to spend some of her unburned emotional energy. To be honest, this attempt at reining her in had not been at all unexpected. After she had nearly strangled the two Monks who had dared to gainsay her and her sister’s wishes, it was very much a given. Anyone who threatened a member of The Pride, even Siena herself, would face censure.

It did not follow that Siena would accept or allow the censure. She certainly would not have allowed Silas to strike her, had he been insane enough to do so. But Syreena was merely a younger Princess to them, heir to the throne only until Siena produced her first child. So, though it galled her until her stomach roiled with bile, they did not hold her in the same regard or esteem.

It did not even seem to matter to them that she had the potential to become one of The Three herself one day.

Though she never showed it outwardly, that really ticked her off.

She muttered a native curse, tossing her hair over so that only the brown side showed. She shook her head and body in a quick little shiver, sending the strands in a quick coating of her skin. Hair turned to feathers in a heartbeat, clothing dropping forgotten to the ground as a peregrine falcon took flight out of them.

Syreena flew through the closed caverns of the monastery dungeon quickly until she gained ground level. Then she winged quickly out of an entrance, leaving the cavern of The Pride behind her in a matter of minutes.

Siena turned her head when the sound of beating wings reached her ears. She watched from the corners of her eyes as the familiar falcon swooped into the chamber she used for prayer, transforming on the spot so that the Princess landed at a slight run of feet instead of talons. The Queen of the Lycanthropes rose from her meditative position on her knees, pausing briefly to shake the thin gown she wore into proper place.

Syreena stood in her nude human form, regarding her sister, whose long golden curls of hair hid the features of her luxuriant body far better than the sheer scrap of cloth she was using for a dress. Nudity meant nothing to either of them, nor any of their genus for that matter. A Lycanthrope could not change form in restrictive clothing, so they wore little to none of it. What they did wear was easily discarded either just before or during the change.

“How did it go?”

Syreena had not told Siena that The Pride had beckoned her, but neither was she surprised that her sister had found out. She was Queen, after all.

“Let’s just say I won’t be invited to tea anytime soon,” Syreena responded glibly, giving her sister a half grin that Siena could very much appreciate.

The sisters were as opposite as they could possibly be, at least in outward appearance. Where Siena was tall and carved out like a voluptuous Amazon, Syreena was petite, slim, and often referred to as willowy. Where Siena was golden-haired, golden-skinned, and a seductive beauty, Syreena looked more like a cunning calico cat with her bi-colored hair and opposite-set harlequin eyes. Siena had grown up in the thick of court intrigues and the freedom to mesh with the other Nightwalker races. Syreena had grown up in the monastery, secluded and sealed up from the real world from the moment everyone realized how different she was.

It was not that she had been shunned or outcast. Quite the opposite. She had been overtreasured. Lycanthropes loved a good mutation, especially a powerful one like hers. She had been sent to The Pride not only for training and education, but to protect her from those who would use her as a weapon to gain power. More specifically, to gain the throne her father had held until only fifteen years earlier that, upon his death, Siena had ascended to. Siena had demanded Syreena’s return that very same day, extracting her from her sheltered existence in order for her to take her place as heir and to use her learning skills as a diplomat and chief advisor for Siena.

They had been veritable strangers the day the Princess had come home, in spite of the constant exchange of letters between them over their century apart. Though Syreena had initially felt like an outsider, Siena had seemed to merely flip a mental switch that made her an immediately loving and doting elder sister.

Syreena had found it easy to love her, a fact that continued to baffle her to this day. Though the Monks had guided and cared for her, they were not known for their overflow of affection or emotion. She had not realized she could love until Siena had taken her so easily into her heart.

“I hope they were not so foolish as to be too harsh with you,” Siena said thoughtfully, crouching slightly to extinguish the incense she had been burning for her prayer.

“If you are referring to my rather bloated lip, I would not worry about it.” Syreena touched the swollen area and shrugged matter-of-factly. “It makes for a tender beak when turning into a strong breeze or thermal, but otherwise causes no harm.”

“I do not like the idea of anyone striking you,” Siena responded, moving closer and inspecting her sister’s otherwise unbruised body for a brief moment. “You should be afforded the same respect that they would show for me.”

“I reminded them of that.” Syreena chuckled, her harlequin eyes twinkling with triumphant mischief. “If The Three wore shorts under their robes, you can bet they would be in a mighty big twist at the moment.”

The remark made Siena laugh out loud. Syreena was such a staid student, full of respect for her upbringing and all the lessons she had learned in the monastery, so this was a rare side of irreverence.

“Well, I am afraid to ask you this favor, then.”

It was not like Siena to hedge, and Syreena narrowed her dual-colored eyes on her sister. “Ask anyway,” she said.

“I would like you to join the scholars who are going into the Library. Most of them will, of course, be Monks of The Pride. However, since you have one foot in the monastery and one foot in the court, it makes you my best selection in bridging the gap between those two disparate interests. You will have the respect for study and religious tradition that so pleases The Pride, and you will balance that with your perspective of my interest, which I know is never too far from your heart.”

“That sounds easy enough,” Syreena said dryly, giving her eyes a dramatic roll.

“Ease, I suspect, will have very little to do with anything that is even remotely connected to the Nightwalker Library,” the Queen noted, a curl furrowing through her brow. “There is one other reason I wish to send you.”

“One I suspect has something to do with the fact that I can usually manage to end up on top in a fight,” Syreena said helpfully.

“Every Monk of The Pride can fight, I realize, though they usually do so only to protect themselves and their own interests. I am not concerned with shielding them, for you all can do that for yourselves. I also take note of the fact that you personally are far more a pacifist than you are a warrior. I have learned that much about you these past fifteen years. Discounting, of course, your recent incident on my behalf.”

“Of course,” Syreena agreed, giving her sister a wicked smile.

“In spite of all these factors, I am forced to consider the fact that we were forced to destroy an encampment of necromancers, hunters, and the Demon traitors that was little more than one hundred feet above and away from the cavern the Library is located in. Then there is the additional fact that this is in our territory and we will be hosting other Night-walkers in this expedition for knowledge. I need someone who has had at least some exposure to other Nightwalkers, someone who will take their safety and well-being into consideration. I cannot post military there. Not if there will be Demons about. The peace between Demons and Lycanthropes is far too young after so many centuries of war, and we Nightwalkers tend to have very long memories. Though the Demons will be scholars, there is still too much potential for a volatile outburst of some sort.

“Also, there is no way of knowing what information the Library will reveal. Issues may arise that could turn a scholarly debate deadly. There are just too many random, uncontained factors. You are the only one I know who will have the power and, clearly, the fearlessness it will take to stand up to members on all sides. You are not afraid of The Pride, which makes you unique among us. I admit even I cannot boast that bravery one hundred percent. You are not poisoned against Demons, and you are fully aware of my desire to maintain this peace with them. You have always defended and championed my political desires. Neither are you afraid of the Demons.

“What I am saying,” she continued after taking a breath, “is that you are the next best thing to being there myself. I trust you and need you to do this.”

“I understand,” Syreena said, giving her sister a wry little smile. “I am Princess of this court, but I am queen of riding both sides of a fence.”

“You say that as if your ability to care for multiple aspects of a situation is a bad thing,” Siena countered, coming closer so she could study Syreena’s features thoughtfully. “I have found it to be the most valuable thing about you.”

“Yes, I know,” Syreena agreed quietly.

What Siena did not realize was that this was true of everyone. Everyone found great value in Syreena and everyone coveted her dual-sided nature. The trouble was finding a point of reconciliation. Not with Siena, because Siena would care for her and respect her even if she grew twenty heads and twenty personalities to match. However, no one in their society, the Queen included, saw Syreena as a single being. She was always a singular one. They enjoyed one of her aspects or the other, but, other than the uniqueness of it, rarely both as a whole.

The court delighted in her mysteriousness. The Pride exploited the fact that they had discovered all of her inimitable talents along with her. The Monks wished to parent her into submission, the public wished to have her wed and bred into it.

Even Siena was guilty of the need to label her and tuck her neatly onto a categorized shelf. It was merely that the Queen’s shelf was larger than most, perhaps able to accommodate the unexpected. To everyone else in Lycanthrope society, Syreena was admired as, say, a wild horse would be admired by the humans who captured it. Intelligent, yes. Even a bit dangerous. Something of power and beauty, meant to be broken to ride and bred for her bloodlines and genetic superiority. Serving dutifully the causes of others, never allowed to simply travel her own way.

If she had a self-created way.

In all fairness, Syreena didn’t even know if she had a direction of her own. She didn’t know if she was a single being, or always two halves, rather than a whole.

“Syreena?”

“Hmm?” She looked up, aware that she had lost track of her sister in her pursuit of her own thoughts. “I am sorry, what did you say?”

“I asked you if something was bothering you,” Siena said, changing the question on the fly. She had seen the frown and confusion warring in the depths of her sister’s harlequin features.

“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Syreena brushed her off, seeming to shake off her thoughts as she shook back her hair.

Siena was not fooled. Lycanthrope hair was a living appendage, with blood flow, tensile ability, and even nerve endings. The toss of Syreena’s head was their cultural equivalent to rubbing or shaking out one’s hands, as if warding off a chill.

“Then tell me the ordinary,” Siena invited softly, reaching to take her sister’s arm and lead her into the depths of the cavern castle that made up their royal household.

“I was just wondering if I was up to the task you are setting before me,” Syreena half lied. “You will be purposely standing me in potentially troubled waters. I am more used to avoiding such obvious situations of conflict. I am better suited to advising you what to do, putting you or others on your behalf into conflict.” Siena laughed when Syreena gave a rueful chuckle. “Perhaps it will do me good,” Syreena said a bit more brightly. “It may temper my readiness to throw others to the wolves in the future.”

“That is the voice of a true philosopher, always hungry for a learning experience.” Siena paused for several moments as they turned in the direction of Syreena’s quarters. “Are you happy here, my sister?”

Syreena stopped, turning to look at the Queen with surprise. “Of course I am. Do you doubt my adjustment?”

“No. It took you some time, but you have adapted to royal life and responsibility quite well. But that isn’t what I asked you. I want to know if you are happy…personally. In your heart.”

Syreena smiled at Siena, linking their arms and guiding her forward once again.

“I am not as happy as you are,” she teased her. “I do not have a handsome new husband making me happy every night”—she paused a purposeful beat for her own mischief—“and every morning, too, I am told.”

Siena threw back her head, laughing with delight even as she allowed herself a bit of a blush.

“Damn, I hate being Queen sometimes. I cannot even use the bathroom without someone taking note of it.” She self-consciously reached to fluff the thick, golden filament coils of her hair. “I think my attendants are already accounting for my breeding cycles in anticipation of an heir.”

“Should I be watching as well?” Syreena asked archly.

“No.” Siena chuckled. “Please. I will be staying quite far away from Elijah when I enter my heat cycle. At least for a few years.”

“Ha! Now there is a trick I would like to see. Elijah has never struck me as the sort who would relinquish a hard-earned prize for two weeks, even if it is only twice a year. And you have never been through a mated heat cycle before. As hard as it is to keep from the bed of the opposite sex when you are without a mate, I hear it is nearly impossible to tolerate with one.”

“And yet I am determined to forebear. Elijah and I must learn to live with one another before we think to bring children into the fray.”

“How like my wife to view everything as a battle.”

Siena and Syreena both came to a halt as the mocking comment rushed past them on a sudden cavern breeze. In a blink, the Demon warrior coalesced out of his element, metamorphosing from wind to flesh in a heartbeat, standing before them with all the assuredness of the cocky, powerful being that he was. He was a giant man, as golden blond as Syreena’s sister, and roped head to toe with the musculature of a well-seasoned warrior. He wore faded denim jeans and a long-sleeved silk shirt the color of deep turquoise. The dye set off the bright green of his eyes as they roamed the figure of his wife boldly and appreciatively.

Syreena was the one who stood in the nude, but she realized that to Elijah, her sister was the only one standing undressed before him.

“Hello.” He greeted Siena softly, his gentle tone taking about ten pounds of armor from his imposing appearance.

Siena’s return greeting was nonverbal. She released her sister and glided eagerly into Elijah’s opening arms. He hugged the Queen to his body, making her seem somehow much smaller and far more delicate by the reverence with which he did so. It was an impressive trick of perception. Syreena realized then that, as outrageous as it seemed from what she knew of them both, they had somehow become tamed to each other.

Which was not to say that they were either of them tame in any way. Suggesting such a thing to Queen or Consort would very likely earn a demonstration otherwise. It meant only that they were quickly finding a rhythm with each other that allowed one to flow in while the other flowed out. A tide that was powerful, volatile, and potentially dangerous, but a concerto of movement within itself. They were the very definition of what the Demons called an Imprinting; what humans called a soul mate. A perfect match. A meeting of life forces that transcended the limitations of the body.

Syreena could not help but envy them. She was happy for them, but she was also jealous, and she could not help herself. Siena had never tended toward domestication. Quite the opposite, in fact, swearing up until the day of her wedding that she would never marry, refusing to expose her heart and the responsibilities of her throne to the influences of a male. Syreena had always known that her sister’s attitude had come from being raised by an irrational and bloodletting warlord of a father. The Queen had not wanted to repeat their mother’s mistakes by risking marriage.

In truth, it had always been Syreena who had expressed wishes for a warm home, a loving mate, and a household of children in the letters the sisters had shared over the decades. Lycanthrope royals were allowed only one true mate, could have no other than that soul that existed out in the world somewhere only for them. Once they chose a lover, it was the equivalent of exchanging lifelong vows. It was supposed to be a bond without equal that would last through eternity, from one lifetime into the next.

And Syreena longed for it with all of her heart at times.

“Well, in spite of the fact that you two share a telepathic connection, I am certain that Elijah’s stay at Noah’s court these past two days has left you with a bit of catching up to do. So I will leave you both.”

Syreena bowed out and away from their presence with haste, grateful that they were so close to her chambers. She made a quick escape into her suite of rooms before either of them could protest.

“Damn,” Siena muttered.

“What is it?” Elijah asked, taking her face between his hands and tilting her head back so he could look into her eyes and divine her thoughts.

“Oh, nothing,” she assured him. “I just realized that she never answered a question I had asked her. I will make her do so…at a later date.”

Elijah grinned broadly as her ideas for what to do in the interim filled his mind.

“Someone missed me,” he teased.

“Someone missed me,” she countered even as his hands moved possessively over her back, drawing her ever closer to his warmth and his heart.