1 / Terreille

Daemon shuffled the deck of cards as Leland glanced at the clock—again. They’d been playing cards for almost two hours, and if she followed the routine, she would let him go in ten minutes or one more hand, whichever came first.

It was the third night that week that Leland had requested his company when she retired. Daemon didn’t mind playing cards, but it annoyed him that she insisted on playing in her sitting room instead of the drawing room downstairs. And her coquettish remarks at breakfast about how well he’d entertained her annoyed him even more.

The first morning after they’d played cards, Robert had flushed burgundy and blustered as he listened to Leland’s chatter until he noticed Philip’s silent rage. After that, since a pleasure slave wasn’t considered a “real” man and, therefore, wasn’t a rival, Robert had gleefully patted Leland’s hand and told her he was pleased that she found Sadi such good company since he had to work so many evenings.

Philip, on the other hand, became brutally terse, tossing the day’s itinerary at Daemon and spitting out verbal orders. He also joined Daemon and the girls for their morning walk, putting Jaenelle and Wilhelmina on either side of him, forcing Daemon to follow behind.

Neither man’s reaction pleased Daemon, and Leland’s pretending to be oblivious to the mounting tension pleased him even less. She wasn’t as frothy or feather-headed as he’d first thought. When they played cards alone and she concentrated on the game, he saw the quiet cunning in her, the skill at dissembling so that, superficially at least, she fit into Robert’s circle of society.

None of that explained why she was using him as a tease. Philip was jealous enough of his brother’s right to stretch out in Leland’s bed. She didn’t have to flaunt another male at him.

Daemon curbed his impatience and concentrated on the cards. Leland’s reason for watching the clock was no concern of his. He had his own reasons for wanting the evening to end.

Finally dismissed, Daemon headed for the Craft library. Finding it empty, he throttled the desire to destroy the room out of frustration.

That was the most irritating part about Leland’s sudden attention. Jaenelle always took a nocturnal ramble around midnight, ending in the library, where he usually found her poring over some of the old Craft books. He kept his intrusions brief, never asked why she was roaming the house at that hour, and was rewarded with equally brief, although sometimes startling, snippets of conversation.

Those snippets fascinated him. They were an unsettling blend of innocence and dark perception, ignorance and knowledge. If, during their conversation, he managed to note the book and the section she was reading, he could sometimes, if he worked at it, untangle a little of what she’d said. Other times he felt as if he were holding a handful of pieces to a jigsaw puzzle the size of Chaillot itself. It was infuriating—and it was wonderful.

Daemon had almost given up waiting when the door suddenly opened and Jaenelle popped into the room. Twitching his hips out of the way so she wouldn’t brush against him below the waist—something he’d taken great care to avoid since he wasn’t sure what his physical reaction would be—he put his hand on her shoulder to steady her and keep her from bolting when she realized someone was in the room.

He felt a giddy pleasure when she wasn’t surprised to see him. As he closed the door and lit the shaded candle-light, her right hand fluffed her hair, something she did when thinking.

“Do you like to play cards?” she asked when they’d settled on the dark brown leather couch, a discreet distance between them.

“Yes, I do,” Daemon replied cautiously. Did nothing go on in this house that she didn’t know about? That idea didn’t please him. If she knew about his playing cards with Leland, what did she know, or understand, about his required visits to Alexandra’s room?

Jaenelle fluffed her hair. “If it rains some morning and we can’t take a walk, maybe you could play a card game with Wilhelmina and me.”

Daemon relaxed a little. “I’d like that very much.”

“Why doesn’t Leland say you were playing cards? Why does she make it sound so secrety? Does she always lose?”

“No, she doesn’t always lose.” Daemon tried not to squirm. Why did she ask so damn many uncomfortable questions? “I think ladies like to seem mysterious.”

“Or they may know things that need to stay hidden.”

For a moment, Daemon forgot how to breathe. His right hand clenched the top of the couch and he winced. Damn. He’d let it slip up on him. The snake tooth had to be milked, and he hadn’t taken the time to find an easily obtainable poison that wouldn’t make him ill.

Jaenelle looked intently at his hand.

Suddenly uneasy, Daemon shifted position, casually dropping that hand in his lap. He’d guarded the secret of the snake tooth for centuries, and he wasn’t about to tell a twelve-year-old girl about it.

He hadn’t counted on her tenacity or her strength. Her hand closed on his wrist and pulled upward. He made a fist to hide his nails and pulled back, trying to break her hold. When he couldn’t, he snarled in anger. It was a sound that had made strong men back away and Queens think twice about what they had ordered him to do.

Jaenelle simply looked him in the eyes. Daemon looked away first, shaking slightly as he opened his hand for her examination.

Her touch was feather-light, gentle, and knowing. She studied each finger in turn, finding the length of his nails of particular interest, and finally focused on the ring finger for a long time.

“This one’s warmer than the others,” she said, half to herself. “And there’s something beneath it.”

Daemon jumped up, pulling her halfway to the floor before she let go of his wrist. “Leave it alone, Lady,” he said tightly, carefully putting his hands in his pockets.

Out of the corner of his eye, Daemon watched her resettle on the couch and study her own hands. It seemed as if she were struggling to say something, and it struck him that she, too, was considering what might inadvertently be revealed.

Finally she said shyly, “I know some healing Craft.”

“I’m not ill,” Daemon replied, staring straight ahead.

“But not well.” Suddenly her voice sounded years older.

“There’s nothing wrong, Lady,” Daemon said firmly. “I thank you for your concern, but there’s nothing wrong.”

“It seems ladies aren’t the only ones who like to seem mysterious,” Jaenelle said dryly as she headed for the door. “But there is something wrong with your finger, Prince. There is pain there.”

He felt cornered. If anyone else had found out about the snake tooth, he would have been creating a quiet grave right now. But Jaenelle…Daemon sighed and turned to look at her. From a distance, particularly in dim light, she seemed like such a frail, plain child, friendly enough but not terribly intelligent. From a distance. When you got close enough to see those eyes change from summer-sky blue to sapphire, it was hard to remember you were talking to a child, hard not to feel a shiver of apprehension at the sharp, slightly feral intelligence just beneath the surface that was drawing its own conclusions about the world.

“I helped you once,” she said quietly, daring him to deny it.

Too startled to respond, Daemon stared at her. How long had she known he was the one who had given his strength to the Priest the night she had asked for help, the night Cornelia had whipped him? When he realized the answer, he could have kicked himself for being such a fool. How long? Since the first morning in the alcove when she’d made her decision about him.

“I know,” he said respectfully. “I was, and am, grateful for the healing. But this isn’t a wound or an illness. It’s part of what I am. There’s nothing you can do.”

He shivered under her intense scrutiny.

Finally she shrugged and slipped out the door.

Daemon extinguished the candle-light and stood in the musty, comforting dark for a few minutes before going to his room. His secret was in her hands now. He wouldn’t protect himself against anything she might say or do.

A few minutes later, Alexandra’s bell began to ring.

2 / Kaeleer

Saetan looked up from the book he was reading aloud and suppressed a shiver. Jaenelle had been intently studying the book’s cover for the past half hour, with that vague look in her eyes that meant she was absorbing the lesson as he intended but was also considering the information in an entirely different way. He continued to read aloud, but his mind was no longer on the words.

A few minutes later, he gave up and put the book and his half-moon glasses on the table. Jaenelle’s eyes didn’t follow the book as he’d expected. She focused on his right hand, her forehead puckered in concentration while she fluffed her hair.

Ah. While it was difficult to be certain until a witch reached puberty, Jaenelle showed a strong inclination to being a natural Black Widow. It would be a few years yet before the physical evidence was apparent, but her interest demanded that the training begin now.

With one eyebrow rising in amusement, Saetan held out his right hand. “Would you care to examine it more closely, Lady?”

Jaenelle gave him a distracted smile and took his hand.

He watched her explore his hand, turning it this way and that, until her fingers finally came to rest on his ring-finger nail.

“Why do you wear your nails long?” she asked in a soft voice as she studied the black-tinted nails.

“Preference,” he replied easily and waited to see how much she could detect.

Jaenelle gave him a long look. “There’s something beneath this one.” She lightly brushed the ring-finger nail.

“I’m a Black Widow.” He turned his hand so she could see beneath the nail, flexed his finger, and watched her eyes widen as the snake tooth slid out of its sheath. “That’s a snake tooth. The small venom sac it’s attached to lies beneath the nail. Careful,” he warned as her finger moved to touch it. “My venom may not be as strong as it used to be, but it’s still potent enough.”

Jaenelle considered the snake tooth for a while. “Your finger isn’t hot. What does it mean if your finger gets hot?”

Saetan’s amusement fled. So this wasn’t idle curiosity after all. “It means trouble, witch-child. If the venom isn’t used, the snake tooth has to be milked every few weeks. Otherwise the venom thickens. It can even crystallize. If it can still be forced through the snake tooth, it will be a painful procedure at best.” He shrugged his shoulders unhappily. “If it can’t, removal of the tooth and the sac would be the only way to stop the pain.”

“Why would someone wait to milk it?”

Again Saetan shrugged. “Venom needs venom. After the venom sac fills, a Black Widow’s body craves poison of some kind. But what’s taken into the body must be taken with care. The wrong poison can be as deadly to a Black Widow as poison generally is to the rest of the Blood. The best poison is your own. Usually Black Widows milk the sac right before their moontime so that during those days when they must rest, their bodies, stimulated by a few drops of their own venom, will slowly refill the sac with no discomfort.”

“And if it’s thick?”

“No good. The body will reject it.” Saetan reclaimed his hand and steepled his fingers. “Witch-child—”

“If you can’t use your own venom, is there a safe poison?”

“There are some poisons that can be used,” he said cautiously.

“Could I have some?”

“Why?”

“Because I know someone who needs it.” Jaenelle stepped away from him, suddenly hesitant.

Saetan’s rib cage clamped around his heart and lungs. He fought against a desire to sink his nails into flesh and tear it. “Male or female?” he asked silkily.

“Does it make a difference?”

“Indeed it does, witch-child. If the distillation of poisons isn’t blended to take gender into account, the effects could be unpleasant.”

Jaenelle studied him, her eyes troubled. “Male.”

Saetan sat still for a long time. “I have something I can give you. Why don’t you see what sort of snack Mrs. Beale has for you? This will take a few minutes.”

As soon as Jaenelle was distracted by taste-testing Mrs. Beale’s offerings, Saetan returned to his private study in the Dark Realm. He locked the door and checked the adjoining rooms before going to the secret door in the paneling beside the fireplace. His workshop was Gray-locked, a sensible precaution that kept Hekatah out but still allowed Mephis and Andulvar to reach him. He flicked a thought at the candle-lights at the end of the narrow corridor, locked the door behind him, and went into his Widow’s den.

This was the place where he brewed his poisons and wove his tangled webs of dreamscapes and visions. Going to the worktable that ran the entire length of one wall, he called in a small key and opened the solid wood doors of one of the large cupboards that hung above it.

The poisons sat in neat rows, their glass containers precisely labeled in the Old Tongue. Another precaution, since Hekatah had never mastered the Blood’s true language.

He removed a small stoppered jar and held the glass up to the candle-light. He opened the jar and sniffed, then dipped his finger into it and tasted. It was the distillation he used for himself. Since he wasn’t born a Black Widow, his body couldn’t produce the venom on its own. He replaced the stopper on the jar, looked in the cupboard again, and took out a jar of tiny, bloodred flakes.

Just a flake or two of dried witchblood added to the distillation and the pain Daemon felt now would be a sweet caress compared to the agony that would be his last experience among the living. Men had actually opened themselves with a knife and pulled their own guts out trying to relieve the pain. Or this one. A softer death but just as sure. Because he was sure now that Daemon was too close. Jaenelle was reaching out to help him, but how would Daemon repay that kindness?

Saetan hesitated. And yet…

When he’d walked among the living and raised his sons, Mephis and Peyton, he was one note and they were two others, harmonious but different. Lucivar, too, was a different note, more often than not a sharp. Saetan had known from the first time Lucivar hauled himself to his feet, his little wings stirring the air to help him keep his balance, that this son would be a father’s plague as he threw himself at the world with that arrogant Eyrien respect for all things that belong to sky and earth.

But Daemon. From the first moment Saetan had held him, he had sensed on some deep, instinctive level that the Darkness would sing to this son in the same way it sang to him, that this son would be the father’s mirror. So he’d given Daemon a legacy and a burden he’d never intended to give any of his children.

His name.

He had intended to teach Daemon about honor and the responsibility that came with wearing Jewels as devastating as the Black. But because of honor, he hadn’t been there. Because he believed in the Blood Laws and Protocol, he had accepted the lie when Dorothea denied him paternity. And because he had accepted the lie, Daemon had been raised as a bastard and a slave, an outcast who had no place in Blood society.

So how could he condemn Daemon to death when it was his failure to protect the child that had helped shape the man? And how could he not make that choice when Jaenelle’s life might be at risk?

Saetan replaced the dried witchblood and locked the cupboard door.

There had been many times in his long, long life when he’d been required to make hard choices, bitter choices. He used the same measuring stick to make this one.

Daemon had given his strength to help Jaenelle when she needed it.

He couldn’t repay that debt with a bottle full of death.

Honor forbade it.

He returned to the Kaeleer Hall, gave the distillation to Jaenelle, and went over and over the instructions with her until he was sure she had them exactly right.

3 / Terreille

Daemon sat on the edge of his bed, his right hand cradled in his lap. His shirt clung to him, sweat-soaked from the fever and the pain.

He had tried to milk the snake tooth that morning, but the venom had thickened more quickly than he’d expected, and except for inflaming already tender flesh, he’d accomplished nothing. He’d managed to get through the day, and after dinner he had asked to be excused, claiming, truthfully, that he was unwell. Since Philip had gone to dinner elsewhere and hadn’t returned and Robert was going about his usual nightly business, Alexandra and Leland had been sympathetic enough not to demand anything further from him.

Now, as midnight approached and the pain was a sharp, thin line that ran from his finger up to his elbow and slowly climbed toward his shoulder, Daemon vaguely wondered what Leland and Alexandra would do when they found him. He might lose the finger or the hand, possibly even the arm at this point. Given a choice, he would rather die within his own pain. That would be preferable to what Dorothea would do to him after learning about the snake tooth, particularly since he doubted he would be capable of protecting himself.

His bedroom door opened and closed.

Jaenelle stood in front of him, solemn and still.

“Let me see your hand,” she said, holding out her own.

Daemon shook his head and closed his eyes.

Jaenelle touched his shoulder. Her fingers unerringly followed the line of pain from shoulder to elbow, elbow to wrist, wrist to finger.

Daemon slowly opened his eyes. Jaenelle held his hand, but he couldn’t feel it, couldn’t feel his arm at all. He tried to speak but was silenced by the dark look she gave him. Positioning the small bowl he used to milk the snake tooth beneath his hand, she slowly stroked the finger from knuckle to nail tip. He felt no pain, only a growing pressure at his fingertip.

Then a faint sound, as if a grain of salt had been dropped into the bowl. Then another, and another, and one more before she squeezed a thin, white, steady thread of thickened venom out of the tooth.

“May I recite the lesson I learned today?” Jaenelle asked quietly as she continued to stroke his finger. “It will help me remember.”

“If you like,” Daemon replied slowly. It was hard to think, hard to concentrate as he stared at the little coil of venom at the bottom of the bowl, at the crystallized grains that had caused so much pain.

When Jaenelle began to speak, Daemon’s head cleared enough to listen and understand. She told him about the snake tooth and about venom, about how a Black Widow uses four drops of her own venom mixed with a warm drink to restore the balance of poison her body needs after milking the snake tooth, about the dangers of letting venom thicken, and on and on. In the time it took her to completely milk the thick venom from the tooth, she had told him more than he’d been able to glean from centuries of effort. The fact that what she told him contradicted most of what he’d learned didn’t surprise him. Dorothea and her coven made an effort to educate their Sisters in other Territories, an education Daemon knew they themselves didn’t ascribe to. It explained why so many potential rivals died in such agony.

Finally it was done.

“There,” Jaenelle said with satisfaction. She plumped the pillows. “You should lie back and rest now.” She frowned at his shirt.

His mind felt fuzzy. She had him half out of the shirt before he realized what she was doing and made a fumbling effort to help her. Holding the drenched material by her fingertips, she wrinkled her nose and vanished it. She disappeared into the bathroom with the bowl, returned with a towel, rubbed him dry, and pushed him back onto the pillows.

Daemon closed his eyes. He felt light, dizzy, and empty to the marrow of his bones. He also felt a craving for poison that was so fierce he almost would have welcomed the pain back.

He heard water running in the bathroom, heard it stop. He opened his eyes to find Jaenelle standing by the bed holding one of Cook’s mugs. “Drink this.”

Daemon clumsily took the cup in his left hand and obediently sipped. His body tingled. He drank gratefully, relieved when the craving started to disappear. “What is this?” he finally asked.

“A distillation of poisons that are safe for you to drink.”

“Where did—”

“Drink.” She darted back into the bathroom.

He finished the drink before she returned. She placed the clean bowl on the bedside table, took the empty cup, and vanished it. “You need to sleep now.” She pulled off his shoes and reached for his belt.

“I can undress myself,” he growled, ashamed of how harsh his voice sounded after she’d done so much to help him.

Jaenelle stepped back. “You’re embarrassed.”

Daemon studied her. She wasn’t being coy. “I don’t undress in front of young girls.”

She gave him a strange, thoughtful look. “Very well. The snake tooth hasn’t drawn back into its sheath yet, so be careful not to snag it.” She turned and went to the door.

It hurt to have her use that neutral, formal voice. “Lady,” he called softly. When she returned to the bed, Daemon raised her hand to his lips for a light kiss. “Thank you. If you ever want to recite another lesson to help you remember it, I’d be very pleased to listen.”

She smiled at him. He was asleep before she slipped out the door.

4 / Terreille

Surreal tried to shift her hips to a more comfortable position, but the arm around her tightened and the hand resting on her arm gripped with bruising force.

Philip Alexander had arranged for this evening with her early that morning. That was the only predictable thing he’d done. There was no leisurely dinner, no conversation, no turning out the lights, no light lovemaking before he covered her. He took her, hard, with the candle-lights glaring at full intensity so there could be no illusion about who was under him. When he was through, he rolled off her, ate the cold dinner, drank most of the wine, and took her again. Now he stared at the canopy above the bed, grinding his fingers into her bruised arm.

She could have stopped him, Gray against Gray. Her Green Jewel had shielded her a little, but not enough to keep her from getting hurt. The Gray was her surprise weapon, and she didn’t want to give up that edge until she absolutely had to. After the second time, he’d done nothing but hold her tight against him, but she felt the anger in him, watched his Jewels flash as they absorbed the energy.

“I’d kill that bastard if I could,” Philip said through clenched teeth. “He acts as if nothing’s happening while she…”

“Who?” Surreal tried to lift her head. “Who’s a bastard?” If she had some idea what had made him act this way, she might be able to get through the rest of the night.

“That ‘gift’ Dorothea SaDiablo sent to Alexandra. There’s more warmth in a glacier than there is in him, and yet Leland…”

Surreal smelled blood. She turned her head just a little. Philip, in his rage, had bitten his lip.

She’d already guessed that Philip’s attachment to the Angelline court had more to do with the daughter than the mother. Wasn’t that what the completely dark room was all about, being able to pretend he was leisurely making love to Leland? Were there hurried couplings when Robert Benedict wasn’t there, couplings so tainted with the fear of being found out that there was no pleasure in them? Now Sadi was there, and Leland could be physically gratified by another male under Robert’s watchful and approving eye.

Surreal shivered, remembering all too well what it felt like to be gratified by the Sadist.

“Cold?” Philip asked, his voice a little gentler.

Surreal let him tuck the quilt up around them. Now that she knew where to look, it wouldn’t be difficult to reach Sadi—if she wanted to. Still, there was that red-haired witch at Cassandra’s Altar who was asking about him, and she did owe him.

Surreal pushed herself up on one elbow, fighting Philip’s restraining hand. She smoothed her hair away from her face, letting it fall in a long black curtain across her back and shoulder. “Philip, why do you believe Sadi is serving Lady Benedict?”

“She publicly summons him to her room so that the whole family and most of the staff knows he’s with her,” Philip snarled. His anger made his gray eyes look flat and cold. “And at the breakfast table, she chatters on about how entertaining he was.”

“She actually says he was entertaining?” Surreal flung herself backward and laughed. Damn. Leland was smarter than she’d thought.

Philip threw himself on her, pinning her to the bed. “You find this amusing?” he spat at her. “You think this is funny?”

“Ah, sugar,” Surreal said, gulping back her laughter. “From what I know about Sadi, he can be very entertaining out of bed, but he’s seldom entertaining in bed.”

Philip’s grip eased a little. He frowned, puzzled.

“She’s not the first, you know,” Surreal said with a smile.

“First what?”

“The first woman to so blatantly call attention to the use of a pleasure slave.” She stifled her laughter. He still didn’t get it.

“Why—”

“So that after people come to expect it and the maids aren’t going to gossip about rumpled linen because the story’s already stale, the slave can be dismissed quietly and the lady’s lover can spend a couple of leisurely hours with her without anyone suspecting.” Surreal looked him in the eye. “And Lady Benedict does have a lover, doesn’t she?”

Philip stared at her for a moment. He started to smile and winced when it pulled his cut lip.

Surreal playfully pushed him away, rolled off the bed, and casually walked into the bathroom. She turned on the light and studied her reflection. There were bruises on her arms and shoulders from his hands, bruises on her neck from his teeth. She winced at the raw ache between her legs. Deje was going to lose her for a few days.

By the time she returned to the bedroom, Philip had straightened the bed and was lying back comfortably, his hands under his head. The Gray Jewel glowed softly as he pulled the covers back to let her in. He studied the bruises, brushing them gently with his fingers.

“I hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“Professional hazard,” Surreal replied with sweet venom. He deserved a short knife in the ribs.

Philip settled her head on his shoulder and tucked the covers around them once again. She knew he was looking for a way to get back on familiar ground, to take back the pain he’d caused. She let the silence stretch and strain, making no effort to help him. She was a whore now because it was the easiest way to get close to males, learn their habits, and make a kill. Since Philip was in only one of her two books, and unlikely to be in the other, she didn’t care if he ever came back.

Sadi was a different problem. She had to find a way to meet him that wouldn’t arouse suspicion. That, however, was something she would consider after some sleep.

“You didn’t get anything to eat,” Philip said quietly.

Surreal waited for a couple of heartbeats before accepting the peace offering. “True, and I’m ravenous.” She sent an order to the kitchen for two prime ribs with the works and another bottle of wine. The hefty tab Deje was going to hand him would disconcert him, but it would also alleviate some of his guilt for hurting her.

“I wouldn’t worry about Sadi,” Surreal said as she slipped out of bed and wrapped a dressing gown around her slim body. “Although”—how nice to see that immediate flicker of worry in his eyes—“a lover who requires his silent participation and discretion would do well to understand that Sadi remembers courtesies just as he remembers slights.”

She smiled as the obelisk on the table chimed and the two meals appeared on the table. Let him chew on that, she thought, as she cut into the prime rib.

5 / Terreille

Daemon glided into the breakfast room but stopped just inside the door when he saw Leland and Philip engrossed in quiet conversation. Philip’s back was to the door, and as he talked, his hand moved gently up and down Leland’s arm. Leland’s eyes, as she listened to him, were lit with the fire of a woman in love.

She was dressed in riding clothes, her hair pulled back from her face in a simple, becoming style. Yes, underneath the frills and fripperies she wore for the society ladies beat the heart of a witch.

As Leland smiled at something Philip said, she looked over his shoulder and saw Daemon. Her eyes became chilly. Stepping away from Philip, she went to the buffet table and began to fill her plate.

Philip’s eyes became hard when he noticed Daemon, but he managed a smile and a courteous greeting.

Well, well, well, Daemon thought as he filled his own plate. Something was in the wind. He was supposed to go riding with Leland that morning, but he noticed Philip was also dressed to ride.

Breakfast was over and Leland had left for the stables before Philip spoke directly to Daemon. He sounded like a polite host dealing with a not-quite-welcome guest. “There’s no reason for you to go out, unless you want to, of course. Since I’d planned to ride this morning, Lady Benedict doesn’t require another escort.”

Or a chaperon, Daemon thought as he sipped his coffee. Overnight Philip’s attitude had changed from terse and jealous to this attempt at courtesy. Why? Not that it mattered. He knew exactly what he would do with a free morning—and it would be free with Leland and Philip out of the house. Alexandra was visiting a friend and wouldn’t be back until after lunch, and Robert, always so occupied with his all-consuming “business,” spent as little time as possible at the estate.

In fact, as that delicious dark scent once again permeated the walls of the Angelline mansion, Robert seemed more and more uncomfortable about staying there. It had reached the point that Daemon always knew when Robert came back even if he didn’t see him because, in the front hallway and on the stairs leading up to the family’s living quarters, there was always the slight stink of fear.

Daemon poured another cup of coffee and shrugged in response to Philip’s suggestion. “I don’t mind not riding this morning,” he said in his bored court voice. “Most likely you’re a more enthusiastic rider and would therefore be a more suitable companion.”

Philip’s eyes narrowed, but there was nothing in Daemon’s silky, bored voice that gave any indication of an intended double meaning.

Daemon smiled and reached for another piece of toast. “You shouldn’t keep the lady waiting, Prince Alexander.”

Philip hesitated at the doorway. Daemon buttered his toast with slow, sensuous strokes, knowing that Philip was watching him and uneasily imagining something other than toast beneath his hand. Well, if Philip actually believed someone like Leland could make a Black-Jeweled Warlord Prince pant, the fool deserved to sweat.

The moment Philip was gone, Daemon went to his room and swiftly changed his clothes. Wilhelmina was with Graff having her lessons; Cook was in the kitchen, sipping a cup of tea and starting to plan the lunch menu; and the servants were bustling about doing their various chores. There was only one person left.

Daemon whistled a cheery little tune as he headed for the private alcove to spend a pleasant morning with his Lady.

He had prowled the gardens, prowled the house, slipped in and out of the stableyard, checked the Craft library, and finally stood in the nursery wing feeling frustrated and concerned. He simply couldn’t find her. He had even checked her room, tapping quietly on the door in case she was resting or wanted some privacy. When there’d been no answer, he had slipped into the room for a cursory look.

Daemon caught his lower lip between his teeth and listened to Graff scolding Wilhelmina. He’d wondered why that harsh and not terribly educated woman was teaching Craft to a young witch from such a powerful family until he’d learned that Robert Benedict had hired her. Since Wilhelmina wasn’t directly related to Leland and Alexandra, Robert’s preference had overruled their objections. Daemon conceded that Graff was a good choice if a man’s intention was to have a girl’s sensibilities about what she was and the power she contained mangled to such an extent that she would never find any joy in the Craft or in herself. Yes, Graff was an excellent choice to bruise a young girl’s ego and make her susceptible to more intimate brutality when she got a little older.

Daemon approached the classroom to see if Jaenelle might possibly be there at the same time Graff yelled, “You’re worthless this morning. Absolutely worthless. You call that Craft? Go on. The lesson’s over. Go do something useless. That you can manage. GO!”

Wilhelmina flew out the door and barreled into him. Daemon caught her by the shoulders, planting his feet to keep them both upright. She gave him a shaky smile of thanks.

“So, you’re free,” Daemon said, smiling in return. “Where’s—”

“Oh, good, you’re here,” Wilhelmina said in a loud, commanding voice. “Help me practice my duet.” She turned toward the music room.

“First tell me where—”

Wilhelmina stepped back and planted her heel squarely on Daemon’s toes. Hard. He grunted from the pain but said nothing because Graff was now standing in the doorway, watching them closely.

Wilhelmina stepped aside. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I hurt you?” Without waiting for an answer, she hauled him toward the music room. “Come on, I want to practice.”

Once they reached the music room, she went to the piano and started digging through the music for the duet she was learning. “You can play the bass part,” she said as she placed her hands on the keys.

Daemon limped to the bench and sat down. “Miss Wil—”

Wilhelmina hit the keys, drowning him out. She continued for a few bars and then turned to him and said accusingly, “You’re not playing.”

It was such a perfect imitation of Graff’s scolding voice that Daemon’s lips curled in a snarl as he twisted around to face her, but the look on her face was a plea for understanding and her eyes were glazed with fear. Grinding his teeth, he placed his hands on the keys. “One, two, three, four.” They began to play.

She was badly frightened, and it had something to do with him. As they stumbled through the duet, he noticed Graff standing in the music room doorway, listening, observing, spying. They finished the duet and started again. The longer they played and the longer Graff watched them the more Wilhelmina mangled the music until Daemon wondered if they were playing the same piece. Certainly the sheet music he was reading had nothing to do with what he was hearing, and he winced more than once at the sounds being produced.

When Wilhelmina doggedly began the duet for the third time, Graff turned away with a grimace, and Daemon felt sourly envious of her ability to leave. As soon as she left, however, Wilhelmina began to play more smoothly, more quietly.

“You must never ask about Jaenelle,” she said so quietly Daemon had to lean toward her to hear. “If you can’t find her, you must never ask anyone where she is.”

“Why?”

Wilhelmina stared straight ahead. Her throat worked convulsively as if she were choking on the words. “Because if they find out, she might get into trouble, and I don’t want her to get into trouble. I don’t want her to go back to Briarwood.” She stopped playing and turned toward him, her eyes misty. “Do you?”

He smoothed her hair away from her face and lightly caressed her cheek. “No, I don’t want her to go back. Wilhelmina…Where is she?”

Wilhelmina started playing again, but quietly. “She goes for lessons in the mornings now. Sometimes she goes and sees friends.”

Daemon frowned, puzzled. “If she goes for lessons, surely your father or Alexandra or Leland had arranged—”

“No.”

“But a maid must accompany her and would—”

“No.”

As Daemon considered this, his hands slowly closed into fists. “She goes alone?” he finally said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Yes.”

“And your family doesn’t know she goes at all?”

“No, they mustn’t know.”

“And you don’t know where she goes or who gives her these lessons?”

“No.”

“But if your family found out about the lessons or who’s giving her lessons, they might put her back in the hospital?”

Wilhelmina’s chin quivered. “Yes.”

“I see.” Oh, yes, he did see. Beware of the Priest. She belongs to the Priest. It was careless of him to forget so formidable a rival. But she did have an innocent way of dazzling a man. He’d forgotten about the Priest. Was she with him now? What could Saetan, one of the living dead, have to offer that was preferable to what he, a living man, could offer her? But then, she wasn’t ready for what a man could offer. Would Saetan try to keep her away from him? If her family ever found out about the High Lord…

There were too many undercurrents in this family, too many secrets. Alexandra balanced on a political knife’s edge, trying to remain the ruling power of Chaillot while Robert’s position in the male council that opposed her constantly undermined the trust she needed from the other Chaillot Queens. The rivalry between Robert and Philip was an open secret among the aristo Blood in Beldon Mor, and Alexandra’s inability to control her own family was causing doubts about her ability to rule the Territory. Add to that the social embarrassment of having a granddaughter who had been going in and out of a hospital for emotionally disturbed children since she was five years old.

And add to that having that same child admit that the High Lord of Hell, the Prince of the Darkness, the most powerful and dangerous Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood, was teaching her Craft.

Even if they thought it was just another story, they would lock her away for good to keep her from telling anyone who might listen. But if, for once, they did believe her, what else might they do to her to end the High Lord’s interest in her and keep themselves safe? And Daemon felt sure that there were things going on in Beldon Mor that Saetan wouldn’t be willing to overlook or forgive.

Daemon looked up and breathed a sigh of relief.

Jaenelle stood in the doorway wearing riding clothes. Her golden hair was braided and a riding hat perched on top of her head at a rakish angle. “I’m going riding. Want to come?”

“Oh, yes!” Wilhelmina said happily. “I’m done practicing.”

As he watched Wilhelmina dash out of the room, there was a bitter taste in Daemon’s mouth. The ashes of dreams. After all, he was Hayll’s Whore, a pleasure slave, an amusement for the ladies no matter what their age, a way to pass the time. He closed the music and made a pretense of straightening the stack. Why should he hope Jaenelle felt anything for him? Why should he hurt now like a child who’s not picked for a game?

Daemon turned. Jaenelle stood by the piano, studying him, a puzzled frown wrinkling her forehead.

“Don’t you ride, Prince?”

“Yes, I ride.”

“Oh.” She considered this. “Don’t you want to come?”

Daemon blinked. He looked at her beautiful, clear sapphire eyes. It had never occurred to her to exclude him. He smiled at her and gave her braid a gentle, playful tug. “Yes, I would like to come.”

She studied him again. “Don’t you have any other clothes?”

Daemon choked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You’re always dressed like that.”

Daemon looked at his perfectly tailored black suit and white silk shirt, completely taken aback. “What’s wrong with the way I dress?”

“Nothing. But if you wear those clothes, you’re going to get wrinkled.”

Daemon started coughing and thumped his chest to give himself time to swallow the laughter. “I have some riding clothes,” he wheezed.

“Oh, good.” Her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Little imp. You know why I’m choking, don’t you? You’re a merciless little creature to mock a man’s vanity.

Jaenelle trotted to the door. “Hurry up, Prince. We’ll meet you at the stable.”

“My name is Daemon,” he growled softly.

Jaenelle spun around, gave him an impudent curtsy, and grinned before running down the hall.

Daemon walked to his room as quickly as his still-sore toes allowed. His name was Daemon, not Prince, he growled to himself as he changed clothes. It always sounded like she was calling a damn dog even if it was his proper Protocol title. It wouldn’t hurt to call him by name, but she wouldn’t because he was her elder.

Daemon paused as he pulled on his boots. He started to laugh. If he was her elder, then what did she think about the Priest?

When Daemon got to the stableyard, there were two ponies saddled as well as a gray mare and Dark Dancer. Not sure which horse was intended for him, he approached Andrew. The stable lad gave Daemon a wobbly smile before ducking his head and rechecking Dancer’s saddle.

“Be careful,” Andrew said quietly. “He’s jumpy today.”

“Compared to what?” Daemon asked dryly.

Andrew hunched his shoulders.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. “Is there a reason for this jumpiness?”

The shoulders hunched a bit more.

Feeling the tension running through the yard, Daemon looked around.

Jaenelle was talking quietly to one of the ponies. Wilhelmina stood nearby, waiting for someone to help her mount. Her cheeks were prettily flushed from the crisp autumn air and the excitement of riding, but she kept glancing nervously in his direction and refused to acknowledge him. “Mother Night,” he muttered and went over to Wilhelmina to give her a leg up.

After helping Wilhelmina mount, Daemon turned to give Jaenelle a hand, but she was already on her pony, grinning at him.

“We’d best be off if we’re going,” Andrew said nervously.

As Daemon turned to answer him, he glanced around the yard. All the stable lads stood absolutely still, watching him. They all know, he thought as he mounted Dark Dancer. She was their precious secret.

Guinness came out of his office and headed toward them, his head down and shoulders hunched as if he were walking into a heavy wind. When he reached them, he sucked his cheek for a minute, cleared his throat a couple of times, and looked in their direction without looking at any of them. He cleared his throat again. “Now, you ladies haven’t been out for a while, so I want you to take a nice easy hack. No rough riding, none of them big jumps. Nothing faster than a canter. And De—Dark Dancer there hasn’t been out much either”—he glanced guiltily at Daemon—“so I don’t want you to let him have his head and hurt himself. Understand?”

“We understand, Guinness,” Jaenelle said quietly. Her voice was serious, but her lips twitched and her eyes sparkled.

“Lady Benedict and Prince Alexander are still out riding, so you watch for them, you hear?” Guinness sucked on his cheek. He waved a hand at them and said gruffly, “Go on now.”

The girls took the lead, walking their ponies sedately through the yard and down the path while Daemon and Andrew followed.

“I don’t remember Guinness ever calling this horse by name before,” Daemon said.

Andrew shrugged his shoulders and smiled. “Miss Jaenelle doesn’t like us calling him Demon. She says it makes him unhappy.”

“You know, Andrew,” Daemon said in a quiet, silky voice, “if this horse breaks her neck, I’m going to break yours.”

Andrew chuckled. Daemon raised one eyebrow at the response.

“Wait until you see them together. It’s worth watching,” Andrew said. “When we get to the tree, you can have the mare. I don’t think the pony can carry you.”

“Very considerate of you,” Daemon said dryly.

They kept to a walk all the way to the tree. When Andrew and Daemon got there, Jaenelle was already dismounted and waiting. Daemon’s heart thumped crazily at the soft, shining look in her eyes, and then felt squeezed by a taloned hand when he realized she wasn’t looking at him.

The stallion nickered softly and thrust his head forward. “Hello, Dancer,” Jaenelle said in a voice that was a sweet, sensuous caress.

Sweet Darkness, he would give his soul if her voice sounded like that when she talked to him, Daemon thought as he dismounted. He adjusted the stirrups for her. “Give you a leg up?”

Andrew’s head whipped around as if the suggestion was totally inappropriate. Perhaps it was. Daemon had the feeling she didn’t need the help, but what he wouldn’t have admitted to anyone for anything was that he wanted—he needed—to be able to touch her in some innocent way, even if it was just to feel her small booted foot in his cupped hands.

Jaenelle’s eyes met his and held them. He fell into those sapphire pools, and he knew she saw what he didn’t want to admit.

“Thank you…Daemon.” Her voice was a feathery caress down his spine that set him on fire and soothed him.

A little giddy, Daemon cupped his hands and bent over. For the briefest moment, she pressed her foot into his hands. Then she lifted it just slightly and propelled herself into the saddle.

Daemon stared at his empty hands and slowly straightened up. The eyes looking at him were amused, but they didn’t belong to a child.

“Shall we go?” Jaenelle said quietly.

As Daemon mounted the mare, Jaenelle vanished her hat and undid her braid, letting her hair float behind her in a golden wave. They set out for the field, Jaenelle riding ahead of them, her murmuring voice floating back on the breeze.

Relieved that Philip and Leland weren’t in the field, it took Daemon a moment to realize that Dark Dancer was cantering far ahead of them and stretching into a ground-eating gallop.

“They’re heading for the ditch!” Just as Daemon started to urge the mare forward to cut across the field and head the stallion off, Andrew grabbed his arm.

“Watch,” Andrew said.

Daemon gritted his teeth and held the mare still.

Dark Dancer came up to the ditch fast, his black tail and Jaenelle’s golden hair streaming behind them like flags of glory. As they approached the ditch, he checked his speed and made a wide, easy turn back toward the center of the field where the small jumps were placed. He took the little wooden jumps as if they were brick walls, high and showy, and as he cantered toward them, Daemon heard Jaenelle’s silvery, velvet-coated laugh of delight.

She turned the stallion to circle the field again. Daemon urged the mare forward and they circled at an easy pace, side by side, with Wilhelmina and Andrew following.

As they reached the beginning of the circle, Jaenelle slowed Dancer to a walk. “Isn’t he wonderful?” She stroked his sweaty neck.

“He’s been a little more ambitious when I’ve ridden him,” Daemon said dryly.

Jaenelle’s forehead wrinkled. “Ambitious?”

“Mm. He’s wanted to teach me to fly.”

She laughed. The sound sang in his blood. She turned toward him then. Beneath the high spirits her eyes were haunted and sad. “Perhaps he’d like you more if you talked to him—and listened.”

Daemon wanted to say something light and cheerful to take away the look in her eyes, but there was something about the way the stallion suddenly twitched his ears and seemed to be listening to them that pricked his nerves. “People talk to him all the time. He probably knows more of the stable lads’ secrets than any other living thing.”

“Yes, but they don’t listen to him, do they?”

Daemon kept quiet, trying to steady his breathing.

“He’s Blood, Daemon, but just a little. Not enough to be kindred, but too much to be…” Jaenelle made a small gesture with her hand that took in the mare and the ponies.

Daemon licked his lips, but his mouth was too dry. He remembered Cook’s story about the dogs. “What do you mean, kindred?”

“Blood, but not the same. Blood, but not human. Kindred is…like but not like.”

Daemon looked up. A few fluffy clouds floated in the deep blue autumn sky, and the sun shone down with its last warmth. No, the physical day hadn’t changed. That’s not what made him shiver. “He’s half Blood,” he finally said, reluctant to know the truth. “Half Blood, half landen, forever caught in between.”

“Yes.”

“But you can understand him, talk to him?”

“I listen to him.” Jaenelle urged Dancer into a trot.

Daemon held the mare back and watched the girl and horse circle the field. “Damn.” It hurt. Dark Dancer was a Brother, and knowing that hurt worse than knowing about the human half-Bloods Daemon had seen over the years who were too strong, too driven, and too aching with an unanswered need to fit into the life of a landen village yet were still left standing on the other side of a great psychic ravine from where the weakest of the Blood stood because they weren’t strong enough to cross over. But humans could at least talk to other humans. Who did this four-footed Brother have? No wonder he took such care with her.

Suddenly Jaenelle and Dancer hurtled toward Andrew as he flung himself off the pony and frantically adjusted the stirrups. Daemon put his heels into the mare and galloped over to join them.

“Andrew—”

“Hurry! Get Dancer’s stirrups down!”

Daemon dropped the mare’s reins and hurried over to the stallion. “Easy, Dancer,” he said, stroking the horse’s neck before reaching for the stirrups.

“Miss Jaenelle.” Andrew grabbed her by the waist and tossed her up onto the pony. He turned in a circle, his eyes sweeping the ground. “Your hat. Damn it, your hat.”

“Here.” Jaenelle held the hat up and put it on her head. Her hair still flowed down her back, tangled by her ride.

Wilhelmina glanced at Jaenelle, all the color gone from her face. “Graff’s going to be mad when she sees your hair.”

“Graff is a bitch,” Jaenelle snapped, her eyes on the path where it took a bend through some trees.

The ponies must be mares, Daemon thought as he adjusted the stirrups. All the males had flinched at the knife-edge in her voice.

“That’s it,” Andrew said, sliding under Dancer’s neck. “Stay on the mare. There’s no time to do more.” He mounted, gathered the reins, and started walking forward. The stallion was furious, and showed it, but kept moving toward the path. Wilhelmina followed behind Andrew, trying to calm the nervous pony and only upsetting it more.

Daemon mounted, started forward, and then stopped. Jaenelle sat perfectly still, her eyes fixed on the bend in the path. Pain and anger filled those eyes, a hurt that went so deep he knew he had no magic to help her. Beneath the childish features was an ancient face that seared him, froze him, wrapped silk chains around his heart.

He blinked away tears, and there was Miss Jaenelle with her childish face and her not-too-intelligent summer-sky blue eyes. She gave him a little-girl smile and urged her pony to a trot just as Philip and Leland rounded the bend and stopped.

Across the field, Philip stared first at Daemon, then at Jaenelle. He said nothing when they reached the group, but he maneuvered his horse so that Jaenelle was riding beside him all the way back to the stable.

Daemon fastened the ruby cuff links onto his shirt and reached for his dinner jacket. He hadn’t had a moment to himself since leaving the stable that morning. First Leland had needed an escort for an extended shopping trip on which she’d bought nothing, then Alexandra suddenly decided to visit an art gallery, and finally Philip insisted they needed to go over invitation by boring invitation all the possible social functions Daemon might have to escort Leland or Alexandra to.

Something in the field this morning had made them all nervous, something that had swirled and crackled like mist and lightning. They wanted to blame him, wanted to believe he’d done something to upset the girls, wanted to believe that the scent of the restrained violence was male and not female in origin. More than that, they wanted to believe they weren’t the cause of it, and that was possible only if he was the source.

Ladies like to seem mysterious.

Not Lady Jaenelle Benedict. She didn’t try to be mysterious, she simply was. She walked in full sunlight shrouded in a midnight mist that swirled around her, hiding, revealing, tantalizing, frightening. Her honesty had been blunted by punishment. Perhaps that was for the best. She was good at dissembling, had some understanding about her family’s reaction if they learned some of the truths about her, and yet she couldn’t dissemble enough because she cared.

How many people knew about her? Daemon wondered as he brushed his hair. How many people looked upon her as their secret?

All the stable lads as well as Guinness knew she rode Dark Dancer.

But Philip, Alexandra, Leland, Robert, and Graff didn’t know.

Cook knew about her ability to heal. So did Andrew. So did a young parlor maid who’d had her lip split by the senior footman when she refused his amorous advances. Daemon had seen her that particular morning with her lip still leaking blood. An hour later she had passed him in the hallway, her lip slightly swollen but otherwise undamaged, a stunned, awed expression in her eyes. So did one of the old gardeners, who now had a salve for his aching knees. So did he.

But Philip, Alexandra, Leland, Robert, and Graff didn’t know.

Wilhelmina knew her sister disappeared for hours at a time to visit unnamed friends and an unknown mentor, knew how the witchblood had come to grow in that alcove.

He knew about her midnight wandering and her secret reading of the ancient Craft texts, knew there was something terrifying and beautiful within the child cocoon that, when it came of age and finally emerged, would no longer be able to live with these people.

But Philip, Alexandra, Leland, Robert, and Graff didn’t know. They saw a child who couldn’t learn simple Craft, a child they considered eccentric, strange, and fanciful, a child willing to speak brutal truths that adults would never speak and didn’t want to know, a child they couldn’t love enough to accept, a child who was like a pin hidden in a garment that constantly scratched the skin and yet could never be found.

How many beyond Chaillot knew what she was?

But not Philip or Alexandra or Leland or Robert or Graff. Not the people who should protect her, keep her safe. They were the ones she wasn’t safe from. They were the ones who had the power to harm her, to lock her away, to destroy her. They, the ones who should have kept her safe, were her enemies.

And, therefore, they were his.

Daemon studied his cold reflection one last time to make sure nothing was out of place, then joined the family for dinner.

6 / Terreille

Leland smiled nervously and glanced at the clock in her brightly lit sitting room. Instead of cards, the table held a bottle of chilled wine and two glasses. The bedroom door stood partially open, and soft light spilled out.

Daemon’s stomach tightened, and he welcomed the familiar chill that began to ice his veins. “You requested my presence, Lady Benedict.”

Leland’s smile slipped. “Um…yes…well…you look tired. I mean, we’ve all kept you so busy these last few days and, well…maybe you should go to your room now and get a good night’s sleep. Yes. You do look tired. Why don’t you just go to your room? You will just go to your room, won’t you? I mean…”

Daemon smiled.

Leland glanced at the bedroom door and blanched. “It’s just…I’m feeling a bit off tonight. I really don’t want to play cards.”

“Nor do I.” Daemon reached for the wine bottle and corkscrew.

“You don’t have to do that!”

Daemon narrowed his eyes, studying her.

Leland scurried behind a chair.

He set the bottle and corkscrew down and slipped his hands into his pockets. “You’re quite right, Lady. I am tired. With your kind permission, I’ll retire now.” But not to his room. Not yet.

Leland smiled weakly but stayed behind the chair.

Daemon left the room, walked down the corridor, turned the corner, and stopped. He counted to ten and then took two steps backward.

Philip stood outside Leland’s door, frozen by Daemon’s appearance at the end of the corridor. They stared at each other for the space of eight heartbeats before Daemon nodded in courteous greeting and stepped out of sight. He stopped and listened. After a long pause, Leland’s door quietly opened, closed, and locked.

Daemon smiled. So that was their game. A pity they hadn’t come to it sooner. It would have spared him all those interminable hours of playing cards with Leland. Still, he’d never been adverse to using the knowledge he gathered about the people he served, and this was just the kind of quiet leverage he needed to keep Philip out of his way. Oh, he would be a splendid silent partner in their game. He had always been a splendid partner, sympathetic and ever so helpful—unless someone crossed him. Then…Well, he wasn’t called the Sadist for nothing.

He found it strangely flattering that she didn’t look up when he slipped into the library and locked the door. She sat cross-legged on the couch, absorbed in the book tucked in her lap, her right hand fluffing her hair as she read.

He glided around the furniture, his smile becoming warmer with each step. When he reached the couch, he bowed formally. “Lady Benedict.”

“Angelline,” Jaenelle replied absently.

Daemon said nothing. He had discovered that if he kept his voice quiet and neutral when she was distracted with something else, she usually spoke without considering her words, responding with a simple, brutal honesty that always left him feeling as though the ground was cracking beneath his feet.

“Witch follows the matriarchal bloodline,” Jaenelle said, turning a page. “Besides, Uncle Bobby isn’t my father.”

“Then who is your father?”

“Philip. But he won’t acknowledge me.” Jaenelle turned another page. “He’s Wilhelmina’s father too, but he was in a dream web when he sired her so he doesn’t know that.”

Daemon sat on the couch, so close that her arm brushed his side. “How do you know he’s Wilhelmina’s father?”

“Adria told me.” She turned another page.

“Who’s Adria?”

“Wilhelmina’s mother. She told me.”

Daemon considered his next words very carefully. “I had understood Wilhelmina’s mother died when your sister was just an infant.”

“Yes, she did.”

Which meant Adria was demon-dead.

“She was a Black Widow but was broken just before she had completed her training,” Jaenelle continued. “But she already knew how to weave a dream web, and she didn’t want to be seeded by Bobby.”

Daemon took a deep breath. When he tried to exhale, it shuddered out of him. With an effort, he dismissed what she’d just said. He wasn’t here to talk about Adria. “How was your lesson this morning?”

Jaenelle became very still.

Daemon closed his eyes for a moment. He was afraid of what she might say if she answered, but he was more afraid of what might happen if she didn’t. If she shut him out now…

“All right,” she said hesitantly.

“Did you learn anything interesting?” Daemon rested his arm on the back of the couch and tried to look relaxed and lazy. Inside, he felt as if he’d swallowed shards of glass. “My own education was regrettably spotty. I envy you having such a learned mentor.”

Jaenelle closed the book and stared straight ahead.

Daemon swallowed hard but pushed on. “Why don’t you have your lessons here? It’s customary for the tutor to come to the pupil, not the other way around.” She wasn’t fooled, and he knew it.

“He can’t come here,” she said slowly. “He mustn’t come here. He mustn’t find out about…” Jaenelle pressed her lips together.

“Why can’t he come here?” Keep her talking, keep her talking. If she shut him out now, she might shut him out forever.

“His soul is of the night.”

It took all of Daemon’s self-control to sit still, to look relaxed and only mildly interested.

Jaenelle paused. “And I don’t think he’d approve.”

“You mean Philip wouldn’t approve of his teaching you?”

“No. He wouldn’t approve of Philip.” She shook her head. “He wouldn’t approve at all.”

Nor do I, my Lady. Nor do I. As Daemon thought about the little he knew about Guardians and the stories he’d heard or read about the High Lord of Hell, he saw Jaenelle swallow, and his own throat tightened. Guardians. The living dead. They drank…“He doesn’t hurt you, does he?” he asked harshly, instantly regretting the words.

Jaenelle twisted to face him, her eyes skimmed with icy anger.

Daemon immediately retreated, trying to find a way to soften what he’d just said. “I mean…does he scold you if you don’t get a lesson right? The way Graff does?”

The anger left her eyes, but she was still wary. “No, he doesn’t scold.” She repositioned herself until she was sitting back on her heels. “Well, most of the time he doesn’t. Only once, really, but that was because I scared them and it was really Prothvar’s fault because I asked him to teach me and he wouldn’t teach me he just laughed and said I couldn’t but I knew I could so I did to show him I could but he didn’t know I could and then he got scared and they got angry and that’s when I got scolded. But it was really Prothvar’s fault.” Her eyes were full of an appeal for him to be on her side.

Daemon felt dizzied by the explanation and grasped the one thing he could pull out. “Who’s Prothvar?”

“Andulvar’s grandson.”

Daemon was getting a headache. He’d spent too many nights getting into heated but friendly arguments with Lucivar over who was the most powerful Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood not to know who Andulvar was. Mother Night, he thought as he surreptitiously rubbed his aching temple, how many of the dead did she know? “I agree,” he said decisively. “I think Prothvar was at fault.”

Jaenelle blinked. She grinned. “That’s what I think too.” She wrinkled her nose. “Prothvar didn’t think so. He still doesn’t.”

Daemon shrugged. “He’s Eyrien. Eyriens are stubborn.”

Jaenelle giggled and snuggled up next to him. Daemon slowly lowered his arm until his hand lightly caressed her shoulder, and sighed, content.

He would have to make peace with the Priest. He wouldn’t step aside, but he didn’t want her trapped in the middle of that kind of rivalry. Besides, the High Lord was just a rival, not an enemy. She might need him too.

“Your mentor is called the Priest, is he not?” Daemon asked in a sleepy, silky voice.

Jaenelle tensed but didn’t pull away. Finally she nodded.

“When you next see him, would you tell him I send my regards?”

Jaenelle’s head shot up so fast that Daemon’s teeth snapped together, just missing his tongue. “You know the Priest?”

“We were briefly acquainted…a long time ago,” Daemon said as his fingers became entangled in her hair.

Jaenelle snuggled closer, hiding a huge yawn with both hands. “I’ll remember,” she promised sleepily.

Daemon kissed the top of her head, reluctantly drew her to her feet, put the book back on the shelf, and led her out of the library. He pointed her toward the stairs that would take her up to her bedroom on the floor above. “Go to bed—and sleep.” He tried to sound stern, but even to his own ears it came out lovingly exasperated.

“You sound like him sometimes,” Jaenelle grumbled. She climbed the stairs and disappeared.

Daemon closed his eyes. Liar. Silky, court-trained liar. He didn’t want to smooth away a rivalry. That wasn’t why he sent the message. He wanted—secondhand and only for an instant—he wanted to force Saetan to acknowledge his son.

But what kind of message would the Priest send in return, if he cared to send any at all?

7 / Terreille

Greer stood before the two women seated by the fire, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was the High Priestess of Hayll’s most trusted servant, her favorite assassin, her caretaker of meddlesome, messy details. This assignment was an exquisite reward for his loyalty.

“You understand what you’re to do?”

Greer turned slightly toward the one called the Dark Priestess. Until tonight he had never understood why his powerful Priestess should feel so compelled to make accommodations for this mysterious “adviser.” Now he understood. She had the scent of the graveyard about her, and her keen malevolence frightened and excited him. He was also aware that the “wine” she drank came from a different kind of vineyard.

“I understand and am honored that you have chosen me for this assignment.” While Dorothea may have chosen who would take on the task, it quickly became apparent that the assignment had come from the other. It was something he would keep in mind for the future.

“He won’t balk because you’re the one explaining the terms of the agreement?” Dorothea said, glancing at his right arm. “His dislike for you is intense.”

Greer gave Dorothea an oily smile and turned his attention fully on the Dark Priestess. So. Even the choice of who hadn’t been made by Hayll’s High Priestess. “All the more reason for him to listen—particularly if I’m not pleased to be offering such generous terms. Besides, if he chooses to lie about what he knows, I may be able to detect it far better than one of the ambassadors who”—he put his left hand over his breast in an expression of sincerity—“although most highly qualified for their usual assignments are, regrettably, reluctant to deal with Sadi except in the most perfunctory ways.”

“You’re not afraid of Sadi?” the Dark Priestess asked.

Her girlish voice annoyed Greer because it was at odds with her deliberately concealed face and her attitude of being a dark, powerful force. No matter. Tonight he finally understood who really controlled Hayll. “I’m not afraid of Sadi,” he said with a smile, “and it will give me great pleasure to see him dirty his hands with a child’s blood.” Great pleasure.

“Very well. When can you leave?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll allow my journey to seem casual so that it will go un-remarked. While I’m there, I’ll take the opportunity of looking around their quaint little city. Who knows what I might find that would be of value to you Ladies.”

“Kartane’s in Beldon Mor,” Dorothea said as she refilled her wineglass. “No doubt he can save you a great deal of preliminary work. Contact him while you’re there.”

Greer gave her another oily smile, bowed to them both, and left.

“You don’t seem pleased with the choice, Sister,” Hekatah said as she drained her glass and stood to leave.

Dorothea shrugged. “He was your choice. Remember that if it goes wrong.” She didn’t look up when Hekatah raised her hands and pulled the hood away from her face.

“Look at me,” Hekatah hissed. “Remember what I am.”

It always amazed Dorothea that the demon-dead didn’t look any different from the living. The only distinction was the faint odor of meat beginning to spoil. “I never forget what you are,” Dorothea said with a smile. Hekatah’s eyes blazed with anger, but Dorothea didn’t look away. “And you should remember who owns Sadi, and that it’s my generosity and my influence over Prythian that’s making your little game of vengeance possible.”

Hekatah flipped the hood back over her face and flung out one hand. The door opened with a crash, its brass knob embedded in the stone wall. With another hiss of anger, she was gone.

Dorothea refilled her wineglass. She’d seen the slight sneer, the change in Greer’s eyes after he’d met the Dark Priestess. But what was she anyway? A bag of bones that didn’t know enough to fall to dust. A leech. A scheming little harpy who was still trying to get back at a man who cared for nothing in Terreille. Nothing at all. She wasn’t sure she believed this story about a child the Priest was besotted with, wasn’t sure what difference it made if he was. Let him have his toy. She’d thrown enough youths into the Dark Priestess’s lair. Now the walking carrion wanted her to give up the use of Sadi for a hundred years, and as gratitude for Dorothea’s willingness to make such an accommodation, was trying to sway her best servant, to make him untrustworthy.

Very well. Let Greer fawn. The day would come when he would realize his error—and pay for it.

Greer sat in a dark corner booth, sipping his second tankard of ale and watching the worn, weary faces of the men at the other tables. He could have gone to a tavern where he would have had a better dinner and the ale wouldn’t have left an aftertaste of wash water in his mouth, but he would have had to smile and fawn over the Blood aristos that crowded a place like that. Here, because they were afraid of him, he had the table of his choice, the best cut of meat, and privacy.

He drained the tankard and raised a finger at the barmaid, who hurried to refill it for him, fending off roaming hands as she passed between the tables. Greer smiled. That, too, in this place, he could have for the asking.

When he was sure everyone else was preoccupied, he lifted his right hand and laid it on the table.

He still didn’t know why Sadi had done that to him, what had provoked the Sadist to such calculated destruction. He’d been sitting quietly in a tavern not unlike this one, exploring a wench’s luxuries, when Sadi had walked up to his table and held out his right hand. Since Sadi had said nothing, since there was only that blank, bored face looking down at him, Greer had extended his own right hand, thinking Sadi had come to grovel for some favor. The moment Sadi’s hand had closed around his, everything changed. One moment there was only the firm pressure of a handshake; the next he felt his bones being crushed, his fingers snapping, felt himself held in a mental vise so he didn’t even have the luxury of fainting to escape. When the vise finally did allow him to escape…

His first thought when he came to was to get to a Healer right away, get to someone who could reshape the pulp that used to be a valuable tool. But someone had already done a healing. Someone had tenderly shaped his hand into a twisted claw and healed the bones sufficiently so that a Healer would have to crush them all over again in order to straighten the hand, and even Greer knew the best a second healing could do was make the shape a little better. It could never make that twisted claw into a usable hand.

Sadi had done the healing, knowing what the result would be. Sadi, who had never failed thereafter to greet him courteously, mockingly, hatefully, whenever they were both in attendance at Dorothea’s court. Sadi, who now was going to butcher a child for the illusion of freedom.

Greer drained the tankard for the last time and threw a few coins on the table. There was a Web Coach heading west in an hour’s time. He had wanted to wait, wanted to seem casual, but in truth, he couldn’t wait to make this offer.