ONE
SaDiablo Hall
Daemonar Yaslana spread his dark membranous wings to their full span before letting them settle into a relaxed position—or as relaxed as he could manage, all things considered. Then he blew out a breath and raised a hand to knock on his uncle’s study door.
The school that wasn’t officially a school had been in operation at SaDiablo Hall for a month. The instructors were still adjusting to teaching a very select group of thirty-six students as well as adjusting to being under the scrutiny of the Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince of Dhemlan, who was not only their employer but also the patriarch of the SaDiablo family—the wealthiest and most powerful family in the entire Realm of Kaeleer. The students were still adjusting to living in a massive gray stone building that, with all its wings and interior courtyards, could be mistaken for a small enclosed village, as well as dealing with that same Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince as an administrator and benefactor who was benign—most of the time—but could swing to cold, lethal rage in a heartbeat if provoked . . . and was their instructor in Craft and Protocol.
All that adjusting meant someone had to act as leader or liaison or some other nonsense word that basically meant being the one who explained things to the adults when stuff happened. And who better to do the explaining than the Warlord Prince who wore a Green Birthright Jewel and was the nephew of that Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince?
He never looked forward to explaining stuff. If his sister hadn’t been involved in this mess, he might have refused, but he couldn’t let Titian fly into a potential storm on her own. Cherish and protect. Those commitments were bred into the bones of Warlord Princes, so he had to get some answers without getting Titian into trouble.
Daemonar gave the door a quick knock before he stepped into the room, leaving himself partially shielded by the door. He didn’t need the protection, not from his uncle—at least not right now—but it made him feel less . . . exposed.
The man behind the large blackwood desk looked up from the papers he’d been reading and smiled a welcome.
Daemon Sadi was still a breathtakingly beautiful man, with a well-toned body, golden-brown skin, and thick black hair that was now silvered at the temples. That he was also the most lethal man in the Realm was something people often forgot when they looked at his face and felt the seductive pull of his potent sexual heat.
Having seen all the sides of Sadi’s temper, Daemonar never forgot the man’s lethal nature, but it was something he could dismiss—most of the time.
Giving Daemon what he hoped looked like an easy smile, he said, “Hypothetical question.”
Did he detect a hint of panic in his uncle’s gold eyes?
Daemon capped his pen and said in that deep, cultured voice that always held a sensual edge, “All right.”
“If someone tried a bit of Craft inside the Hall instead of going outside because it’s cold and rainy today, and the spell went a wee bit wrong and punched a hole in a wall, how much trouble would that person be in? Hypothetically.”
He watched Daemon swallow. Started counting the seconds before getting a reply. Not so different from counting between seeing lightning and hearing thunder to determine the distance of a storm.
“How big is this hypothetical hole?” Daemon finally asked.
“More decorative window than door,” Daemonar replied.
“No risk of any part of the Hall collapsing because of this hole?”
“Not at all. Easily repaired.” He hoped.
“Well then. If no one was injured and there is no structural damage that might cause future injuries, I think the person or persons involved in the spell that went a wee bit wrong could make their own arrangements to have the repairs done without requiring me to get involved. Hypothetically.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“However.” Daemon uncapped his pen and made a mark on the paper in front of him.
Hell’s fire, here it comes, Daemonar thought.
“I would expect to find a copy of this bit of Craft on my desk when I return to the study after the midday meal so that I can review it and use it as part of the next Craft lesson, since it had gone a wee bit wrong.”
Daemon looked up and gave Daemonar a smile that made the boy’s knees turn weak.
“That’s a sensible idea,” Daemonar said.
“I’m delighted you think so.” The words were purred, and that, in itself, was a warning.
Daemonar closed the study door, smiled at Beale, the Red-Jeweled Warlord who was the Hall’s butler, and Holt, the Opal-Jeweled Warlord who was Daemon’s secretary, and strode across the great hall, heading for the staircase in the informal receiving room. Once out of sight, he bounded up the stairs and ran to the part of the Hall where the other youngsters waited.
Seven of the twenty-two girls who were now living at the Hall had been involved in whatever had gone awry. The rest of the girls and the fourteen boys who also lived at the Hall had come running at the sound of something going boom. Everyone had looked at the remains of the table that had held the items used for that spell, then looked at the hole in the wall—and then the other thirty-five youngsters had looked at him.
When he walked back into the room, they stared at him, their expressions all some variation of “Oh, shit, how much trouble are we in?”
Granted, they had good reason to be concerned. It was the first time any of them had blown up a piece of Uncle Daemon’s home.
“Well?” Titian asked, catching her lower lip between her teeth. “Are we in trouble?”
“What did Prince Sadi say?” Zoey asked.
“We’ll all chip in to pay for the repairs and get them done quietly.” He was pretty sure there wouldn’t be anything quiet about sawing and hammering and whatever else was needed, but this was a remote part of the Hall, so the noise shouldn’t be too obvious. “Zoey, write out what you and the other girls were trying to do, what you used in the spell, and the steps you took before things went . . .”
“Out the wall?” Titian suggested.
“Yeah. That. Don’t leave anything out. I’ll slip it on Prince Sadi’s desk when he’s away from his study.”
Everyone sucked in a breath. It was Jhett, one of the young Black Widows, who finally said, “Why tell him what we used for the spell?”
“Because that was his price for allowing us to take care of this ourselves,” Daemonar replied.
* * *
* * *
When Beale and Holt walked into his study, Daemon kept his eyes on the paper and continued to write random words—as if this conversation were casual enough not to require his full attention.