CHAPTER 1
The sword whistled toward me in sharp descent, almost too
fast for a human to see. But not for a part human, part
Monère, and whatever else part thing I was, which was, oh
yeah, that’s right—demon dead.
I parried, feinted to the left, then thrust to the right.
"Gotcha!" I crowed as I tapped Edmond smartly on the ribs.
My young partner lowered his sword, rubbed his side, and
grinned as I did a small victory dance. With protective
padding and dulled weapons, he could afford to grin.
Practice was much more civilized and far less bloody than
real life would have been.
"You didn’t let me score on purpose, did you?" I asked
suspiciously.
"No, milady," Edmond said. "You’ve gotten better than me,
sure and true."
"You hear that?" I said smugly to the big guy watching us,
Nolan Morell, our sword-master instructor. "I’m better than
Edmond now."
"Progress, indeed, milady," Nolan agreed blandly. "You can
defeat an eighteen-year-old boy."
"An eighteen-year-old Monère warrior-in-training who has
been practicing with the sword since he was ten, whereas I
have been swinging a practice blade only for three months,"
I corrected.
"And no longer just swinging but thrusting and parrying,
attacking and counterattacking now," my stern instructor
relented with a brief smile that quickly faded. "But your
footwork is still sloppy, your crossover too slow—"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah." I dismissed the oncoming lecture with a
careless finger wave. "Indulge me for a moment. Let me
enjoy my brief glow."
Both of them waited a couple of seconds as I rested, sucking
in deep breaths.
"Enough glow, milady?" The dryness in Nolan’s voice could
have rivaled the finest aged wine.
I straightened. "Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Nolan."
His tone, if anything, became even drier. "I will be sure
to take note of that, milady. Now let us continue. En
garde!"
We practiced for another twenty minutes concentrating on
footwork, then finished up the session with more challenging
blade work. Whatever Edmond lacked in skill, he made up for
in exuberance as the multiple sore spots where he had tapped
me attested. Of course, I’d delivered quite a few whacks
myself, I thought with satisfaction.
I saw my progress in swordsmanship much as I did the ruling
of my new territory and its many people—much improved. It
had been half a year since I had become a Monère Queen, the
Queen of Louisiana specifically. It was a mantle that had
been awkward at first but was beginning to fit more
comfortably. I had over four hundred people under me,
Monère men, women, and children. I knew almost all their
names now and their varied relationships within our insular
community.
"I’m going to miss you, Edmond," I said as we wiped down our
equipment and hauled it inside.
"You have only to say the word, milady, and I will be happy
to stay with you."
And here was where the easy camaraderie that we had shared
over the past few months became strained. Because what he
was really asking was that I take him into my bed. That was
what Monère Queens did to fresh and dewy eighteen-year-old
virgin Monère boys: take them into their beds and enjoy
their harmless, lusty vitality for a handful of years before
they tired of them or they grew too strong, too powerful,
and were kicked out of their Queen’s bed. Because then it
was not mere copulation anymore, an exchange of pleasure
that took place, but an exchange of power and sometimes of
talents and abilities.
Awkwardness fell as the tick tock of life intruded upon us.
The summer solstice was coming up, and in several months
Edmond would leave his home, all that he had ever known, to
seek service in another territory with another Queen, one
who was willing to make him her lover—our Monère version of
going out into the big, bad world. It made worry flutter in
my stomach like any mother sending a kid off to college
would feel, but to keep him here safe with me would be even
crueler because I had no intentions of taking him into my
bed. It was much too crowded already.
"Ah, Edmond," I said, sighing. "I would be doing you a
grave disservice if I asked you to stay. Find another Queen
who will appreciate the gift of your Virgin Claiming. Me?
I’ve got too many men lovers as it is."
"Not enough, milady, and half of those are not even with you
regularly."
He was referring to Amber, the Warrior Lord who ruled the
adjacent slice of Mississippi territory, a portion of my own
domain that I had induced the High Queen’s Court to
officially split off and deed over to him. I’d upgraded
Amber’s status and downgraded his time with me. Gryphon, my
other Warrior Lord, my first love, had died and become demon
dead. He resided in Hell now but that wasn’t a barrier for
me. I could visit him, was the only Monère who could,
actually, thanks to that quarter human part of me: my blood
was warmer than a full-blooded Monère, allowing me to
survive Hell’s scorching heat. Of course, the fact that I
was out of sorts with Halcyon, the High Prince and ruler of
Hell, who not only happened to be my demon mate but also the
sponsor of my newly dead first love . . . well, that made
visiting Gryphon a bit awkward. My other lover, Dante, was
missing. Of course, I’d sort of kicked him out, but I’d had
a change of mind and heart. Only problem was he didn’t know
that. He hadn’t come back.
"Only Dontaine is here with you now," Edmond noted.
Dontaine—my stunningly handsome master at arms. He had
stuck despite my best efforts to push him away. I seemed to
be my own worst enemy.
"The others might be absent but they still count," I said
firmly.
"Still, that is only five men."
"Only." I rolled my eyes, my humor returning. How could it
not at such an outlook. "Only five men. If I had it in me,
I would blush, but my human upbringing seems to be fading
more and more each day I spend with you guys."
"And they are all old," Edmond complained. "You should try
someone younger and more tender."
"Yuck," I grimaced. "You make yourself sound like a piece
of steak."
A smile widened his lips. "Juicy and succulent, prime and
untouched—"
"Stop, just stop. You’re turning me off steak, and if you
do, I’ll never forgive you."
The two of us shared a laugh, then in a more serious vein
because I had become fond of my young practice partner, I
told him with honest regret, "I cannot give you what you
need and deserve, Edmond. I’m weird that way. I happen to
like older guys, especially the ones I’ve chosen. And I
know I may be fucked up, because I was the one to push them
away, but I’m waiting for them to come back to me."
Edmond gave me a gentle smile. "Then they surely will,
milady, for I cannot see any resisting you."
"How about forgiving me?" I asked wryly.
"That, too," he said with an earnest kindness that allowed a
glimpse of the strong and wonderful warrior he had the
potential of maturing into . . . if the Queens whose beds he
passed through in the next few decades of his life weren’t
totally fucked-up bitches—which, unfortunately, most of them
were.
"After you’ve enjoyed your time with as many Queens as you
can glut yourself on, Edmond, when it becomes too dangerous
for you . . . you know that you can always come back here,
right?" Young and dewy fresh though Edmond was now, he had
only fifty years or less to play paramour to a Queen, a
century at most after that to serve as guard. Then would
come the grim fate of death or desertion. Because most
Queens ended up killing their oldest and most powerful
warriors, who became not only threats to the Queen’s
authority but also potential competitors for a territory of
their own should they gain enough power to attain Warrior
Lord status. Either they were killed or they fled and went
rogue. They were never invited back to the territory of
their birth, offered a promise of safety and shelter, as I
was now offering Edmond.
My words clearly stunned him.
"That is very generous, milady," Edmond said, greatly moved.
Kneeling, he kissed my hand.
"Please don’t forget," I said, fondly tugging his hair.
"You have a place to come back to, okay?"
"Yes, milady." Bowing, he took his leave, tossing over his
shoulder, "And I’ll be older then. Just the way you like!"
Impudent boy. I was still grinning when I left the locker
room. Nolan still at his desk, jotting down notes in the
lesson book he kept on my progress.
"Did you mean it?" Nolan asked, looking up to meet my gaze.
"About Edmond being able to come back here?"
"No. About waiting for your lovers to come back to you.
About
wanting them to."
Our relationship abruptly shifted from student and teacher
to the more complicated relationship of a woman facing the
father of one of the men she loved. "Do you mean Dante?" I
asked softly.
Nolan nodded.
"Yes . . . if he can forgive me."
"Goddess bless us. I believe it’s the other way around–as
does likely he: whether
you could forgive
him."
"I would hope that we could forgive each other." There was
quite a lot to forgive, on both our parts. "I keep
expecting him to return, but he hasn’t. It’s been three
months since he left." Truth–since I kicked him out. "Have
you heard anything from him?"
"No, he hasn’t contacted us." A flicker of worry, quickly
concealed. "But he will soon, eventually."
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