Page 2 of Shadows and Roses (The Dark Queens #1)

Castien. Five years later.

"Castien FitzUmbra, bastard son of the Night Courts’ High House of Shadows," boomed the herald.

Unnecessarily redundant. Fitz , bastard. Umbra , shadow. The herald could have left out the ‘bastard son’ bit. Everyone knew what it meant, even if they pretended to ignore him. Like the lords and ladies glancing his way over their gold-rimmed cups and behind elaborate fans, a few taking longer, sweeping, lascivious looks.

He lengthened his stride, exaggerating and slowing his standard strut. An open black silk shirt revealed his toned chest. Snug leather pants highlighted every step. Walking was an art form, and he was an artist.

Upon reaching the end of the red rug, Castien bowed with a slight flurry of long-practiced elegance. He held the posture for the appropriate five heartbeats. A few titters floated up behind him, no doubt admiring his leather-accentuated rear. A heartbeat longer, then.

He straightened to catch a glimpse of amusement in dark green eyes before the cold returned.

Beautiful . He could appreciate those who appreciated him. Hers was a sharp sort of beauty. Wrapped in silk and gold, anyone was beautiful. He wondered what she'd look like, stripped of her finery, naked in bed, as they all were eventually. This one had more cruelty than beauty. He should be a touch more careful. But only a touch—if they didn't want him , then they should have chosen another .

Although, this particular client could choose whomever she wished, and do whatever she wished to him. It was a grim thought. Her royal figure bore a relaxed, assumed authority where she lounged upon a rose-carved wooden throne. If he’d had even a minute of warning, his favorite jeweled rose brooch would be pinned on his sleeves. Details were important.

From the sound of the contract, he was at the service of her entire court. At least he wouldn't be bored. Sharing a courtesan amongst a household was normal; perhaps he should view the royal court as one magnificently large, perversely complicated household. Perhaps the Queen didn't even have any interest in him.

Her steel-tipped claws tapped on the arm of a man seated beside her. The man appeared content—no, drugged. His expression was too vacant. He didn’t flinch, didn’t react at all as she drew angry red lines on his skin.

While her claws were perhaps a bit longer and sharper than most noblewomen’s, they appeared perfectly natural. Rumors of claws longer than her arm were clearly nonsense. There were so many rumors to sift through—it wasn’t worth the effort. No matter that this was the court; he knew his trade. By the end of his time here—a few days, perhaps a week at most—all the rumors would be about him.

His easy smile designed to charm and dark brown eyes lined in black were already captivating his audience. While his gaze remained on the Queen, he caught more than a few nobles openly staring, their companions forgotten.

But the Queen’s icy interest passed quickly, her sharp fingers lazily waving him away. His first official presentation at the royal court, complete in a few seconds. Mildly affronted, he nonetheless performed a deep, elegant bow before striding towards the banquet tables. Her short attention span was for the best; he’d eaten little before being rushed out on a carriage this morning. His House hadn’t even bothered with the usual briefing. The gods’ damned palace and he was here blind. What were they thinking?

It was a good thing he was more hungry than offended, otherwise, he might have been tempted to do something foolish, like flirt with everyone here until they all grew jealous of each other and leave her to clean up the mess.

That could still be fun. Later.

As he approached the tables, a neatly dressed servant gave him a cursory glance, then ignored him. Well enough.

Miniature everything sweet was spread out in decorative, dense patterns. Sugar was hardly sustenance, but he was starving. Still, the image of the vapid man by the Queen's side gave him pause. Was any of the food drugged?

Castien flinched as a large shadow fell over his hovering, extended arm.

"A little jumpy there, boy. Aren't you supposed to be one of those fancy whores?" The gruff voice belonged to a portly old man who helped himself to several pastries after waving off the servant. A glance identified another vice—gold and jeweled rings on every finger, emerald buttons attached to silk, gold thread lacing every pattern and weave, laced silk cuffs, earrings, brooches, and too many other adornments that Castien was having a difficult time naming to count.

Castien lowered his arm and bowed. "Yes, I am from the Night Courts, my lord. We… take our pleasures in private." He gently lifted a pie from the same area.

The old man bellowed a laugh, spewing crumbs. "You mean this place is nastier than a whorehouse? I've always said so!" Selecting another miniature pie, he winked. "Not that I mind." Boisterous laughter trailed the old man as he ambled away .

The Houses weren’t just any whorehouse, but perhaps the nobles saw little difference. Castien licked cinnamon and spice from the apple pie and leaned backward against the table. He really was too nervous. Hunger, probably. This was his first visit to the palace, but hardly his first assignment. The little pastry only made him hungrier.

Eyeing the other tables, he spotted someone else walking towards him. A tall, slim man dressed in a similar fashion to his own—shirt open to reveal lean, smooth muscles, and tight pants that outlined the anatomy of every step. The man wore a lopsided smile, tipping his chin slightly when their eyes met.

"Don't mind that old pig," the man breathed, emphasizing almost every other word. "He can't get it up anymore, so he eats too much instead. Can you imagine that he used to be a strapping, muscle-bound knight? That must have been a thousand pies ago."

"Indeed, a knight?" Castien responded non-committally.

The man shrugged, daintily picked up a round, white puffball, then grimaced and set it back down. "So he says, often. Lord Hegbert of some small town I can't remember, once Plains' Knight and captain of a hundred cavalry troops. It probably takes a hundred horses to get him anywhere now." He brushed off his fingers and extended a hand. "I'm Niko, royal courtesan. I've been here for about a year."

"Castien, of the House of Shadows," he said as he accepted the gesture. The palace courtesans had no loyalty or contract to the Night Courts. Incomparable, of course.

"Pleasure. Can I ask—is Shadow the House that lets you… tie them up and hurt them?" Niko licked his lips, his eyes suddenly wide. "Have you… made your clients bleed?" he asked in a low, eager tone.

"No, I have not," Castien replied with a slight frown. This was one of the reasons why he preferred in-house service. The rules were explained, misconceptions generally cleared before he met a client. "My House specializes in games of control, yes, but we discourage actual harm. The few voluntary courtesans who participate in light blood play have very strict requirements, and lasting damage is prohibited." The occasional noble inevitably broke the rules, something he suspected the House allowed just for the steep fees they could extract.

The eager glint faded from the man's eyes. "Oh. That’s a pity. Are you quite sure…? Yes, well." He picked up a clean plate and started stacking pastries. A few cream puffs and tarts later, as Castien spotted a promising table, Niko's voice piped up again. "I heard," he trilled, "that the High Houses let their courtesans get away with anything . My lord was complaining about a girl who refused him. He hit her too hard and had to pay a fine, and he was banned until she recovered." His wide eyes were back, but this time only with awe.

Castien shrugged. "The Houses have rules. I’m unaware of the circumstances, but perhaps the lord misunderstood those rules. The Masters don't like their merchandise damaged."

"Rules. That sounds nice," the man whispered. He blinked and smiled a bit too widely. "I'd best return to my lord. Take care."

What an odd man. He hadn't appeared drugged, but he had sounded a bit off. Perhaps some rumors about the palace were true.

Putting the conversation from his mind, Castien maneuvered to a table encumbered with roasted meats. The servant frowned but again ignored him. Clean plates and utensils were neatly stacked to one side. Castien had managed to half-fill his plate before the servant bowed to someone behind him.

A whip caught his wrist. It yanked, almost unbalancing his plate. His arm tensed, and he barely avoided pulling away; he'd been told during the vetting process of servants whipped to death for even accidentally tugging at the leash. But a whip used on him ? A soft snarl escaped his lips.

"What’s that, toy? Did you just snarl at me?"

The owner of that sharp, incredulous tone was a brown-haired woman in a dark red, layered satin dress. A few inches shorter than him, she managed to sneer down her nose as she examined his face and glanced at his chest. She pulled him closer, cinnamon and cloves assaulting his senses, twisting his stomach. Her claws slid up between his thighs, roamed lazily over his cock, and slowly outlined the edges of his open shirt.

"My apologies, lady," he said stiffly. "My empty stomach is talking."

Sharp clawtips scratched his skin as she eyed him with disdain.

"You Night Court are all the same. Sauntering around with a guard, pretending to be more than a whore." She leaned forward with a hungry grin. "But you don't have a guard." Her claws stroked under his shirt, over his heart. "I will enjoy breaking you."

He froze. She was right. His guard should be stopping this. Where was his guard?

This was embarrassing. A smart courtesan was observant. He was acting like an idiot. Castien glanced at the nearby lords and ladies, who did nothing, said nothing. A few watched idly, most didn't even notice him. Every courtier wore their own whips, either coiled around their wrists or leashing companions that massaged them, fed them, sat on their laps. Normal. They behaved as though all of this was perfectly normal. So should he.

Should.

The whip around his wrist scraped at his pride, and he hardly cared that her claws pressed indents into his chest. She wouldn’t dare hurt him.

His chin lifted. His calm eyes were as polite as his tone. "I am more than a whore, whereas you're simply another sparkle in a sea of gems. Pretty, but no one would miss you. Lady."

Her eyes widened, nostrils flaring, mouth opening in a silent gape. "You dare—!"

"Castien FitzUmbra?"

A low, soft voice interrupted them: a man in simple yet elegant off-white silk. Around one of his wrists was a frayed leather cuff. He didn't appear to have a whip.

The woman glared at the newcomer. "Marlow. Your newest is in need of a thorough whipping. Make sure he learns his place."

Her hand fell and her whip reluctantly released its hold.

Marlow bowed deeply before turning to Castien. "Apologize to Lady Marissa," he commanded as his hand fell to a knife at his waist. No whip, but a weapon. The lady also had a blade belted to her side, though she didn't make a move toward it.

It wasn't the threat that convinced Castien. This man's tense shoulders and stiff, straight back weren’t due to anger. His raised eyebrows weren't tilted in surprise, but within his widened eyes was a plea. The command in his voice was clear yet his blade's grip glistened with sweat.

The lady’s glare made no notice Marlow's discomfort.

"My deepest apologies, lady." Castien softened his voice in contrition, eyes lowered, head bowed.

"Hmph." A few moments longer and she breezed past him, her sweet, cloying scent swirling away.

The fear gradually faded from Marlow's posture. His eyes ran over Castien's body. With a quiet sigh, the man spoke again. " Come with me. You need to be assigned a room and schedule. Bring the food."

They exited the dining halls, meandering through confusing turns and several stairs. Marlow nodded to servants and lowered his eyes to the guards. "Eat. I'm sure you're starving. You'd normally have some time before I found you, but it's later than usual. The guards like to waste time with you Night Court beauties. There's always a noble to rush things, but you came alone. Very unusual, that."

Castien half-listened to the man rambling about a few previous Night Court guests. None from his House, so it was unlikely that he'd recognize them. Eating on this brisk walk was a bit of a task, but he was hungry enough. The stone halls passed in a blur with paintings and tapestries little more than splashes of color in the background.

When Marlow paused for a breath, Castien interrupted, "You were afraid of that lady."

The man stopped walking. "As you should be. I've heard about your rules . There is only one rule here, Castien." The man's tongue glided over his name like he was tasting it. "The nobles do anything they want."

A flicker of something—fear or panic?—crossed his eyes and he started walking again.

"Anything? There must be limits," Castien said.

"Must there? How quaint. You’ll learn soon enough."

The Night Courts’ rules may not apply to anyone else, but Castien still belonged to his House. They wouldn’t allow their property to be damaged.

The man stopped and turned abruptly at the end of the hall. His eyes wandered over Castien's body again before stopping between his legs. "Did the guards have you remove your clothing?"

Castien frowned. "Yes."

"Did they do anything to you?"

"No…?"

The man's gaze snapped up and he suddenly moved forward, a hand touching Castien's furrowed brow.

"Don't mar that lovely face with a frown," he whispered, now watching Castien's full lips. After a few moments, he sighed, stepped back, and cleared his expression. "The Queen will summon you. Tell her if anyone makes use of you before then. This does not mean you may act a fool—punishment for disrespect is not prohibited."

So the Queen did have priority. That was good to know.

The man gestured around the corner. "Go on. Join the line."

Rushed here to join a line? At least he was no longer amongst that hall of vipers.

One last thing. "Where is my guard? I’ve never left my House without a guard."

Marlow was already walking away. "Not here. Go."

Castien frowned, then carefully smoothed his features. No guard. The man must be mistaken.

He rounded the corner to find a few people standing against a wall, staring at a door. They glanced at him, then went back to watching the door. It creaked open at that moment, and a small man stepped out.

"Come, come." The man scowled at the woman closest to the door. She was dressed in a simple, worn but clean cotton frock. She scurried through the door with her head down.

More waiting. He stifled a sigh and leaned against the wall. At least he wasn’t starving anymore. Two others waited with him—one a hunched, older man, the other a gangly youth. Neither appeared to be courtesans unless the royal court’s standards were far lower than the Night Courts’ .

With nothing better to do, he criticized the rug. It was old and worn, though mostly clean. Nothing like the artistic rugs that were replaced every year if not more often at his House. He’d learned to converse in art for the pleasure of his clients, but there was nothing artful in this hall. The entrance to the dining hall had been far more elaborately decorated—colorful banners, a sprawling tapestry opposite the door, and plush rugs to cushion gentle feet.

It had been a while since he was relegated to lesser accommodations.

By the time the door opened again, he had to stretch muscles chilled by the cold stone wall. The first woman walked out with a piece of paper, thanking the small man before leaving. The youth was beckoned inside next.

As the door closed again, Castien shook his head. "Bureaucracy," he mumbled.

"Keeps the world running, boy," the older man commented, his filmy eyes turned toward Castien.

"Of course, sir." Running efficiently was questionable, however. "Might I ask what you’re waiting for?"

The man smiled faintly. "I was a clerk in the palace until my eyes failed me. I’m hoping they can find something for me still."

"I’m sure they will, sir."

He tilted his head and squinted. "Such pretty manners in a pretty voice. Are you a courtesan?"

"Yes, sir. I’m from the Night Courts, here for the Queen’s pleasure."

The man turned aside. "Hmph. I won’t tell you your business, but I pity any of the courtesans here."

"It’s my first day, sir. Do you have any advice for handling the court?"

"Don’t," he barked. Grumbling under his breath, he said, "If you have no choice—always obey. Always. I tell new people to stay out of the nobles’ way, but you can’t do that. Good luck."

"My thanks, sir."

The older man said nothing more. His last comment felt more like, good luck, you poor fool .