“We appealed to the Queen,” the older man said. “She did nothing, even after that bitch’s friends maimed my son’s face.”

The Steward flinched, but he looked the man in the eyes. “The Queen did not see your complaint. Neither did I. If we had . . .” He glanced at the Master of the Guard, who was pale and sweating, then offered Lucivar a small bow. “My Queen offers her assurance that we will take this Lady with us now and confine her at the court until you’re ready to collect the debt she owes.”

Lucivar lifted the war blade away from the bitch’s face and stepped back. “Take her.”

The Steward snapped his fingers. Guards poured into the shop—frightened, angry men. They had reason to be frightened and angry. If their Queen had known about the misconduct and had done nothing, her court would fail. She would go down, and most likely they would go down with her.

Two of the guards who wore Jewels darker than Summer-sky took hold of the witch’s arms and led her away, surrounded by the other men.

The Steward looked at the other two aristo women in the shop. “The Queen commands your presence tomorrow morning. She has some questions for you. Don’t be late.”

The two women bolted out of the shop.

The Master turned to the Steward. “You can’t—”

“Don’t,” the Steward warned.

Lucivar had a good idea of what was silently said between the two men. If the Master was lucky, he would lose only his place in the Queen’s court and his social standing in the town. If he’d been warned to curb his daughter’s behavior and had ignored the warning—or had prevented complaints from reaching the Queen—he might be having a chat with the High Lord of Hell very soon.

He waited for the Master and the Steward to leave the shop before he vanished his war blade and released the shield he had wrapped around Bekka. He took the paper from the counter and vanished that too.

“Thank you, Prince,” Graham said. He looked at Bekka. “Thank you for everything.”

“If anyone gives you or your family trouble over this, you come to me,” Lucivar said.

As soon as he walked out of the shop, the people still standing on the other side of the street scurried into shops to get out of sight.

“Are you all right?” Daemon asked quietly. He looked relaxed, standing there with his hands in his trouser pockets, but Lucivar knew better.

“I’m fine. You?” He scanned the street, then used psychic tendrils to get a taste of the emotions of the people around him. More relief than fear.

“Leave the bitch to me.”

Lucivar studied his brother. “Do you know everything she’s done, everything she owes?”

Daemon’s smile was viciously gentle. “No, but she does.”

Nothing he could imagine doing would be close to whatever savagery Daemon had in mind. “Then deal with her.”

“It will be a pleasure.”

He would find out soon enough. “I’m going to need your help for one more confrontation.”

“I thought this was the last name on your list.”

“It was. I’m going to have to attend one of those fancy dances.”

“You need my help choosing your wardrobe?”

“Nah. I know what I’m wearing. I just need your help to stop me from turning a dance into a slaughter.”

Now Daemon studied him. “Are you sure you want me to do that?”

“No, but it’s better if you do.”

“In that case, Prick, let’s get back to your eyrie before Surreal rips into us for missing your curfew.”

He laughed softly, then fell into step with Daemon as they headed for the town’s landing web.

* * *

* * *

After dinner, all the adults had spent time with the children, playing games. Now the yappy horde was brushed and bathed, and Manny was reading them a story while Marian put the baby to bed.

Surreal settled in one of the chairs in Lucivar’s study.

“Brandy?” Daemon asked, holding up the decanter.

“Please.” The hunt had been invigorating, but spending the past few days listening to girls’ stories about Dillon, who was dreamy or a cad or a little bit of both, had left her feeling uncomfortable, made her think too much of her own mistakes.

She was ready to go home.

Daemon poured brandy for all of them, then sat in the other chair near Lucivar’s desk. He smiled at her and said, “How was your day?”

A polite, husbandly question.

“It would have been better if I could have slipped a stiletto between someone’s ribs and twisted the blade, but the girl who wanted to ‘squeeze his head until his eyeballs popped out’ was quite entertaining.” Surreal sipped her brandy. “I couldn’t decide if she was talking about Dillon or her father, but I can see why Dillon ran from that one. I also talked to a woman who was about a decade older than our prick-ass. She became quite agitated when I said I didn’t know where he lived. She insisted that he had invited her to stay with him, that they had an ‘understanding.’” She took another sip before looking at Lucivar. “You should have a Black Widow take a look at her in order to assess her mental stability. I think she’s going to cause someone serious trouble.”

“Done,” Lucivar said. “Anything else?”

Did she want to tell him? Damn it, she had to tell him. “And I castrated a Warlord at an art exhibition.”

Lucivar and Daemon lowered their brandy snifters and looked at her. She smiled at them. A big, big smile.

“It was very neatly done with Craft, although some of the pieces of art on display would have been improved by blood and gore.”

“Okay,” Lucivar said. “Why?”

“Let’s just say it was a debt he owed the daughter he already has but won’t acknowledge. If the report doesn’t show up at the Keep in a few days, I’ll tell you where to find the Warlord who brought this to my attention.”

“Did the Warlord understand who you are?” Daemon asked.

“He did. And I think he had a good understanding of what I would do with the information.”

Lucivar rubbed his forehead and sighed. “One debt settled. More to go. What do we do about Dillon?”

Surreal set the brandy snifter on the desk. “He played some games with Jillian to make her feel uneducated and socially inferior, and I want to slap him for that. But he wasn’t like that when this started—and there is still a measure of kindness in him. If Lady Blyte had done nothing more than go back on her promise of a handfast after taking him to her bed, Dillon would have been heart-bruised and his reputation would have had a smudge, but he wouldn’t have been any different from plenty of other young men who went to the marriage bed before the marriage. That bitch turning him into prey for every other aristo bitch who wanted a ride and hounding him from one town to the next . . . He could have made other choices, and he’s responsible for his actions, but, Hell’s fire, I feel a little sorry for the fool, and I don’t want to feel sorry for him.” She grabbed the snifter and gulped the rest of the brandy.