The Queen's Price

FIFTY

Daemon knocked on the door of Marian and Lucivar’s suite and waited until Marian answered.

She smiled at him. “I was heading out to take a walk with Grizande, but if you need something . . . ?”

“A favor.” He raised her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Don’t come down for dinner this evening. Beale will bring you a tray.”

“All right. Maybe Titian and Zoey would like . . .”

“No. All the children are required at my table tonight. So are the instructors.”

She studied him. “And Lucivar?”

“Needs to be there.”

“Is this going to be a repeat of last night’s dinner?”

Daemon smiled. “Oh, no, darling. This will be much better.”

Throughout the day, one girl after another tried to get out of showing up for dinner. Nadene examined everyone who complained of an upset stomach or a weakness in her limbs or a stubbed toe that made it impossible to walk all the way to the dining room, and why couldn’t they get something to eat from the auxiliary kitchen?

Nadene made them swallow benign tonics and booted them out of the healing room, declaring them fit to sit at the Prince’s table.

The boys didn’t complain, but if Daemon had offered them a choice of a week in the dungeons or sitting through another dinner with Lady Dumm, they would have run to reach the cells.

Just as well he hadn’t given anyone a choice.

Just as well he’d warned Lucivar not to wear the new evening clothes Marian had insisted he buy in Amdarh during their last visit. The scent from the little surprise he’d brought back from Hell was difficult to get out of fabric.

He kept Grizande close to him—and he waited.

He waited through the first course. As he waited through the smacking of lips, he wondered how many people at the table—besides Lucivar, Daemonar, and Grizande—had knives handy that could not in any way be considered silverware.

He waited through the belching. And then came the sound he’d waited for.

The stench that rose from beneath the table immediately following that protracted fart was eye watering. Nose stinging. The people sitting next to and immediately across from Dumm covered their noses and shoved back their chairs. They eyed the dining room’s closed doors with desperation, not quite daring to run past him since he sat there, calmly, as if he hadn’t noticed a thing.

The stench quickly spread to both ends of the table.

Daemonar shoved away from the table. He looked at his father, who sat there staring at Daemon. Then the boy shook his head and strode for the dining room doors. As soon as the doors opened, the children and instructors hurried to follow.

Except for Brenda, who became stuck as she passed Daemon’s chair.

Daemon smiled at the Scelt witch who blinked back tears and gasped for breath.

“I can appreciate, to an extent, that you intended this as a valuable exercise in dealing with a difficult guest, but I think Lady Dumm should put aside her crude behaviors before she next sits at my table. If she doesn’t, she, and her flatulence, could end up in people’s bedrooms. Do we understand one another, Lady Brenda?”

“We do, Prince. We do.”

“I’m delighted.” Daemon released her and heard her collide with someone as she ran out of the room.

Lucivar shoved away from the table and used Craft to open all the windows in the room. “Hell’s fire, Bastard. Corpses that have been bloating in the sun for days don’t smell that bad.”

“Funny you should say that.” Daemon rose. Using Craft, he floated the glass bowl from beneath the table and put a triple Black shield around it and the object it held.

Pulpy. Fleshy. Its smell was an irresistible lure for carrion eaters—but that smell was also bait for a trap, since the plant that produced it was a carnivore.

It took nerve and a fair amount of skill to acquire this prize, and he considered it well worth the price he’d paid in bottles of yarbarah and fresh blood.

Lucivar stared at the thing in the bowl. “What is that?”

Daemon’s smile was warm and wicked. “That, old son, is a corpse flower.”