1 / Terreille

Why does she ask so damn many uncomfortable questions? Daemon thought, clenching his teeth and staring straight ahead as they walked through the garden. He almost missed Wilhelmina, who was in bed with a cold. At least when her sister was present, Jaenelle didn’t ask questions that made him blush.

“You’re not going to answer, are you?” Jaenelle asked after a minute of teeth-grinding silence.

“No.”

“Don’t you know the answer?”

“Whether I know the answer or not is beside the point. It’s not something a man discusses with a young girl.”

“But you know the answer.”

Daemon growled.

“If I were older, would you tell me?” Jaenelle persisted.

There might be a way out of this yet. “Yes, if you were older.”

“How old?”

“What?”

“How old would I have to be?”

“Nineteen,” he said quickly, beginning to relax. Who knew what sort of questions she might have in seven years, but at least he wouldn’t have to answer this one.

“Nineteen?”

Daemon’s stomach fluttered. He walked a little faster. The pleased way she said that made him distinctly uncomfortable.

“The Priest said he wouldn’t tell me until I was twenty-five,” Jaenelle said happily, “but you’ll tell me six years sooner.”

Daemon skidded to a stop. His eyes narrowed as he regarded the happy, upturned face and clear sapphire eyes. “You asked the Priest?”

Jaenelle looked a little uncomfortable, which made him feel a little better. “Well…yes.”

Daemon imagined Saetan trying to deal with the same question and fought the urge to laugh. He cleared his throat and tried to look stern. “Do you always ask me the same questions you ask him?”

“It depends on whether or not I get an answer.”

Daemon clamped his teeth together in order to keep a wonderfully pithy response from escaping. “I see,” he said in a strangled voice. He started walking again.

Jaenelle skipped ahead to examine some leaves. “Sometimes I ask lots of people the same question.”

His head hurt. “What do you do if you don’t get the same answer?”

“Think about it.”

“Mother Night,” he muttered.

Jaenelle gathered some of the leaves and then frowned. “There are some questions I’m not allowed to ask again until I’m a hundred. I don’t think that’s fair, do you?”

Yes!

“I mean,” she continued, “how am I supposed to learn anything if people won’t tell me?”

“There are some questions that shouldn’t be asked until a person is mature enough to appreciate the answers.”

Jaenelle stuck her tongue out at him. He responded in kind.

“Just because you’re a little older than me doesn’t mean you have to be so bossy,” she complained.

Daemon looked over his shoulder to see if anyone else was around. There wasn’t, so that meant she was referring to him. When did he change from being an elder to being just a little older…and bossy?

Impertinent chit. Maddening, impossible…how did the Priest stand it? How…

Daemon put on his best smile, which was difficult since his teeth were still clenched. “Are you seeing the Priest today?”

Jaenelle frowned at him, suspicious. “Yes.”

“Would you give him a message?”

Her eyes narrowed. “All right,” she said cautiously.

“Come on, I’ve got some paper in my room.”

As Jaenelle waited outside his room, Daemon penned his question and sealed the envelope. She eyed it, shrugged, and slipped it into the pocket of her coat. They parted then, he to escort Alexandra on her morning visits, and she to her lessons.

Saetan looked up from his book. “Aren’t you supposed to be with Andulvar?” he asked as Jaenelle bounced into his public study. He and Andulvar had decided that, under the guise of studying Eyrien weapons, Andulvar would teach her physical self-defense while he concentrated on Craft weaponry.

“Yes, but I wanted to give you this first.” She handed him a plain white envelope. “Is Prothvar going to be helping with the lesson?”

“I imagine so,” Saetan replied, studying the envelope.

Jaenelle wrinkled her nose. “Boys play rough, don’t they?”

He’s pushing because he’s afraid for you, witch-child. “Yes, I guess they do. Go on now.”

She gave him a choke-hold hug. “Will I see you after?”

He kissed her cheek. “Just try to leave without seeing me.”

She grinned and bounced out of the room.

Saetan turned the envelope over and over in his hands before finally, carefully, opening the flap. He took out the single sheet of paper, read it, read it again…and began to laugh.

When she returned and had plundered her way through the sandwich and nutcakes that were waiting for her, Saetan handed her the envelope, resealed with black wax. She stuffed it into her pocket, tactfully showing no curiosity about this exchange between himself and Daemon.

After she left, he sat in his chair, a smile tugging at his lips, and wondered what his fine young Prince would do with his answer.

Daemon was helping Alexandra into her cloak when Jaenelle popped into the hallway. He’d spent the day teetering between curiosity and apprehension, regretting his impulsiveness at sending that message. Now he and Alexandra were on their way to the theater, and it wasn’t the right time or place to ask Jaenelle about the message.

“You look wonderful, Alexandra,” Jaenelle said as she admired the elegant dress.

Alexandra smiled, but her brow puckered in a little frown. It always annoyed her that Jaenelle persisted in addressing everyone on a first-name basis. Except him. “Thank you, dear,” she said a bit stiffly. “Shouldn’t you be in bed by now?”

“I just wanted to say good night,” Jaenelle said politely, but Daemon noticed the slight shift in her expression, the sadness beneath the child mask. He also noticed that she said nothing to him.

They were on their way out the door when he suddenly felt something in his jacket pocket. Slipping his fingers inside, he felt the edge of the envelope, and his throat tightened.

He spent the whole evening surreptitiously touching the envelope, wanting to find an excuse to be alone for a minute so he could pull it out. Years of self-control and discipline asserted themselves, and it wasn’t until he left Alexandra drifting into a satisfied sleep and was in his own room that he allowed himself to look at it.

He stared at the black wax. The Priest had read it, then. He licked his lips, took a deep breath, and broke the seal.

The writing was strong, neat, and masculine with an archaic flourish. He read the reply, read it again…and began to laugh.

Daemon had written:“What do you do when she asks a question no man would give a child an answer to?”

Saetan had replied:“Hope you’re obliging enough to answer it for me. However, if you’re backed into a corner, refer her to me. I’ve become accustomed to being shocked.”

Daemon grinned, shook his head, and hid the note among his private papers. That night, and for several nights after, he fell asleep smiling.

2 / Terreille

Frowning, Daemon stood beneath the maple tree in the alcove. He had seen Jaenelle come in here a few minutes ago, could sense that she was very nearby, but he couldn’t find her. Where…

A branch shook above his head. Daemon looked up and swallowed hard to keep his heart from leaping past his teeth. He swallowed again—hard—to keep down the tongue-lashing that was blistering his throat in its effort to escape. All that swallowing made his head hurt. As his nostrils flared in an effort to breathe and his breath puffed white in the cold air, Jaenelle let out her silvery velvet-coated laugh.

“Dragons can do that even if it isn’t cold,” she said gaily as she looked down at him from the lowest branch, a good eight feet above his head. She squatted on the branch with her arms around her knees and no discernible way to save herself if she overbalanced.

Daemon wasn’t interested in dragons, and his heart was no longer trying to leap out—it was trying to crawl into his stomach and hide.

“Would you mind coming down from there, Lady?” he said, astounded that his voice sounded so casual. “Heights make me a bit queasy.”

“Really?” Jaenelle’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. She shrugged, stood up, and leaped.

Daemon jumped forward to catch her, pulled himself back in time, and was rewarded by having a muscle in his back spasm in protest. He watched, wide-eyed, as she drifted down as gracefully as the leaves dancing around her, finally settling on the grass a few feet from him.

Daemon straightened up, winced as the muscle spasmed again, and looked at the tree. Stay calm. If you yell at her, she won’t answer any questions.

He took a deep breath, puffed it out. “How did you get up there?”

She gave him an unsure-but-game smile. “The same way I got down.”

Daemon sighed and sat down on the iron bench that circled the tree. “Mother Night,” he muttered as he leaned his head against the tree and closed his eyes.

There was a long silence. He knew she was watching him, fluffing her hair as she tried to puzzle out his seemingly strange behavior.

“Don’t you know how to stand on air, Prince?” Jaenelle asked hesitantly, as though she was trying not to offend him.

Daemon opened his eyes a crack. He could see his knees—and her feet. He sat up slowly and studied the feet planted firmly on nothing. “It would seem I missed that lesson,” he said dryly. “Could you show me?”

Jaenelle hesitated, suddenly turning shy.

“Please?” He hated the wistfulness in his voice. He hated feeling so vulnerable. She’d begun to make some excuse, but that note in his voice stopped her, made her look at him closely. He had no idea what she saw in his face. He only knew he felt raw and naked and helpless under the steady gaze of those sapphire eyes.

Jaenelle smiled shyly. “I could try.” She hesitated. “I’ve never tried to teach a grown-up before.”

“Grown-ups are just like children, only bigger,” Daemon said brightly, snapping to his feet.

She sighed, her expression one of harried amusement. “Up here,” she said as she stood on the iron bench.

Daemon stepped up beside her.

“Can you feel the bench under your feet?”

Indeed he could. It was a cold day that promised snow by morning, and he could feel the cold from the iron bench seeping up through his shoes. “Yes.”

“You have to really feel the bench.”

“Lady,” Daemon said dryly, “I really feel the bench.”

Jaenelle wrinkled her nose at him. “Well, all you have to do is extend the bench all the way across the alcove. You step”—she placed one foot forward and it looked as if she was stepping on something solid—“and you continue to feel the bench. Like this.” She brought the other foot forward so that she was standing on the air at exactly the same height as the bench. She looked at him over her shoulder.

Daemon took a deep breath, puffed it out. “Right.” He imagined the bench extending before him, put one foot out, placed it on the air, and pitched forward since there was nothing beneath him. His foot squarely hit the hard ground, jarring him from his ankle to his ears.

He brought his other foot to the ground and gingerly tested his ankle. It would be a little sore, but it was still sound. He kept his back half turned from her as he ground his teeth, waiting for the insolent giggle he’d heard in so many other courts when he’d been maneuvered into looking foolish. He was furious for failing, furious because of the sudden despair he felt that she would think him an inadequate companion.

He had forgotten that Jaenelle was Jaenelle.

“I’m sorry, Daemon,” said a wavering, whispery voice behind him. “I’m sorry. Are you hurt?”

“Only my pride,” Daemon said as he turned around, his lips set in a rueful smile. “Lady?” Then, alarmed. “Lady! Jaenelle, no, darling, don’t cry.” He gathered her into his arms while her shoulders shuddered with the effort not to make a sound. “Don’t cry,” Daemon crooned as he stroked her hair. “Please don’t cry. I’m not hurt. Honestly I’m not.” Since her face was buried against his chest, he allowed himself a pained smile as he kissed her hair. “I guess I’m too much of a grown-up to learn magic.”

“No, you’re not,” Jaenelle said, pushing away from him and scrubbing the tears off her face with the backs of her hands. “I’ve just never tried to explain it to anyone before.”

“Well, there you are,” he said too brightly. “If you’ve never shown anyone—”

“Oh, I’ve shown lots of my other friends,” Jaenelle said brusquely. “I’ve just never tried to explain it.”

Daemon was puzzled. “How did you show them?”

Instantly he felt her pull away from him. Not physically—she hadn’t moved—but within.

Jaenelle glanced at him nervously before ducking behind her veil of hair. “I…touched…them so they could understand.”

The ember in his loins that had been warming him ever since the first time he saw her flared briefly and subsided. To touch her, mind to mind, to get beneath the shadows…He would never have dared suggest it, would never have dared make the first overture until she was much, much older. But now. Even to connect with her, just briefly, inside the first inner barrier—ah, to touch Jaenelle.

Daemon’s mouth watered.

There was the risk, of course. Even if she initiated the touch, it might be too soon. He was what he was, and even at the first barrier there was the swirl of anger and predatory cunning that was the Warlord Prince called Daemon Sadi. And he was male, full grown. That, too, would be evident.

Daemon took a deep breath. “If you’re afraid of hurting me by the touch, I—”

“No,” she said quickly. She closed her eyes, and he could sense her hurting. “It’s just that I’m…different…and some people, when I’ve touched them…” Her voice trailed away, and he understood.

Wilhelmina. Wilhelmina, who loved her sister and was glad to have her back, had, for some reason, rejected that oh-so-personal touch.

“Just because some people think you’re different—”

“No, Daemon,” Jaenelle said gently, looking up at him with her ancient, wistful, haunted eyes. “Everyone knows I’m different. It just doesn’t matter to some—and it matters a lot to others.” A tear slipped down her cheek. “Why am I different?”

Daemon looked away. Oh, child. How could he explain that she was dreams made flesh? That for some of them, she made the blood in their veins sing? That she was a kind of magic the Blood hadn’t seen in so very, very long? “What does the Priest say?”

Jaenelle sniffed. “He says growing up is hard work.”

Daemon smiled sympathetically. “It is that.”

“He says every living thing struggles to emerge from its cocoon or shell in order to be what it was meant to be. He says to dance for the glory of Witch is to celebrate life. He says it’s a good thing we’re all different or Hell would be a dreadfully boring place.”

Daemon laughed, but he wasn’t about to be sidetracked. “Teach me.” It was an arrogant command softened only by the gentle way he said it.

She was there. Instantly. But in a way he’d never experienced before. He felt her sense his confusion, felt her cry of despair at his reaction.

“Wait,” Daemon said sharply, raising one hand. “Wait.”

Jaenelle was still linked to him. He felt the quick beating of her heart, the nervous breathing. Cautiously, he explored.

She wasn’t inside the first barrier, where thoughts and feelings were open for perusal, and yet this was more than the simple inner communication link the Blood used. And it was more than the physical monitoring he usually did in bed. This was sharing physical experience. He felt her hair brushing against her cheek as if it were his own, felt the texture of her dress against her skin.

Oh, the possibilities of this kind of link during…

“Okay,” he said after a while, “I think I’ve got the feel of it. Now what?” His face burned as she watched him warily.

At last she said, “Now we walk on air.”

It was queer to feel that his legs were both long and short, and it took him a couple of tries to stand on the bench again. Amused, he just shook his head at her puzzled expression. Naturally, if all the other friends had been children, they were probably all close to the same age and the same size. And the same gender? He pushed that thought away before he had time to feel jealous.

After that, it was amazingly simple, and he reveled in it. He learned by experiencing her movements. It was similar to floating an object on air, except you did it to yourself. They practiced straight walking, parading around the alcove. Next came straight up and down. Pretending to climb stairs took longer to get the hang of, since he wanted a distance more compatible with his own legs and kept tripping on nothing.

Then the link was gone, and he was standing on air, alone, with Jaenelle watching him, her eyes shining with pride and pleasure. When he lowered himself to the ground with a graceful flourish, she clapped her hands in delight.

Daemon opened his arms. Jaenelle skated to him and wrapped her arms around his neck. He held her tightly, his face buried in her hair. “Thank you,” he said hoarsely. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Daemon.” Her voice was a lovely, sensuous caress.

Holding her so close, with his lips so near her neck, he didn’t want to let her go, but caution finally won over desire.

He didn’t push her away. Rather, he gently held her shoulders and stepped back. “We’d better get back before someone comes looking.”

Jaenelle’s happy glow dimmed. She carelessly dropped to the ground. “Yes.” She looked at the bed of witchblood. “Yes.” She walked out of the alcove, not waiting for him.

Daemon stayed for another minute. Better not to come in together. Better not to make it obvious. To keep her safe, he had to be careful.

He glanced at the witchblood and bolted from the alcove. As he glided along the garden paths, his face settled into its familiar cold mask, the happiness he’d felt a few minutes before honing the blade of his temper so sharp he could have made the air bleed.

If you sing to them correctly, they’ll tell you the names of the ones who are gone.

Everything has a price.

Whatever the price, whatever he had to do, he would make sure one of those plants wasn’t for her.

3 / Terreille

Daemon pulled the bright, deep-red sweater over his head and adjusted the collar of the gold-and-white-checked shirt. Satisfied, he studied his reflection. His eyes were butter melted by humor and good spirits, his face subtly altered by the relaxed, boyish grin. The change in his appearance startled him, but after a moment he just shook his head and brushed his hair.

The difference was Jaenelle and the incalculable ways she worried, intrigued, fascinated, incensed, and delighted him. More than that, now, when he was so long past it, she was giving him—the bored, jaded Sadist—a childhood. She colored the days with magic and wonder, and all the things he’d ceased to pay attention to he saw again new.

He grinned at his reflection. He felt like a twelve-year-old. No, not twelve. He was at least a sophisticated fourteen. Still young enough to play with a girl as a friend, yet old enough to contemplate the day he might sneak his first kiss.

Daemon shrugged into his coat, went into the kitchen, pinched a couple of apples from the basket, sent Cook a broad wink, and gave himself up to a morning with Jaenelle.

The garden was buried under several inches of dry snow that puffed around his legs like flour. He followed the smaller footprints that walked, hopped, skipped, and leaped along the path. When he reached the small bend that mostly took him out of sight of anyone looking out the upper windows of the house, the footprints disappeared.

Daemon immediately checked all the surrounding trees and let out a gusty sigh of relief when she wasn’t in any of them. Had she backed up in her own tracks waiting for him to pass her?

Grinning, he gathered some snow in his gloved hands, but it was too fluffy and wouldn’t pack. As he straightened up, something soft hit his neck. He yowled when the clump of snow went down his back.

Daemon pivoted, his eyes narrowing even as his lips twitched. Jaenelle stood a few feet from him, her face glowing with mischief and good fun, her arm cocked to throw the second snowball. He put his fists on his hips. She lowered her arm and looked at him from beneath her lashes, trying to look solemn as she waited for the tongue-lashing.

He gave her one. “It is totally unfair,” he said in his most severe voice, “to engage in a snowball fight when only one combatant can make snowballs.” He waited, loving the way her eyes sparkled. “Well?”

Even without reading the thoughts beneath it, he could tell her touch was filled with laughter. Daemon bent down, gathered some snow, and learned how to make a snowball from snow too fluffy to pack. This, too, was similar to a basic lesson in Craft—creating a ball of witchlight—yet it required a subtler, more intrinsic knowledge of Craft than he’d ever known anyone to have.

“Did the Priest teach you how to do this?” he asked as he straightened up, delighted with the perfect snowball in his hand.

Jaenelle stared at him, aghast. Then she laughed. “Noooo.” She quickly cocked her arm and hit him in the chest with her snowball.

The next few minutes were all-out war, each of them pelting the other as fast as they could make snowballs.

When it was over, Daemon was peppered with clumps of white. He leaned over, resting his hands on his knees. “I leave the field to you, Lady,” he panted.

“As well you should,” she replied tartly.

Daemon looked up, one eyebrow rising.

Jaenelle wrinkled her nose at him and ran for the alcove.

Daemon leaped forward to follow her, ran a few steps, stopped, and looked behind him. His were the only footprints. He squatted, examining the snow. Well, not quite. There were the merest indentations in the snow leading toward the alcove path. Daemon laughed and stood up. “Clever little witch.” He raised one foot, placed it on top of the snow, and concentrated until he had the sensation of standing on solid ground. He positioned his other foot. Step, step, step. He looked back and grinned at the lack of footprints. Then he ran to the alcove.

Jaenelle was struggling to push the bottom of a snowman into the center of the alcove. Still grinning, Daemon helped her push. Then he started on the middle ball while she made the one for the head. They worked in companionable silence, he filling in the spaces while she stood on air and fashioned the head.

Jaenelle stepped back, looked at what they had fashioned, and began to laugh. Daemon stepped back, looked at it, and started to cough and groan and laugh. Even though it was crudely shaped, there was no mistaking the face above the grossly rotund body.

“You know,” he choked, “if any of the groundskeepers see that and word gets back to Graff…we’re going to be in deep trouble.”

Jaenelle gave him a slant-eyed look sparking with mischief, and he didn’t care how much trouble they got into.

He took the apples from his pocket and handed her one. Jaenelle took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, and sighed. “It won’t last, you know,” she said regretfully.

Daemon looked at her quizzically. “They never do.” He looked at the sun beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. “I don’t think this snow’s going to last. Feels like it’s warming up.”

Jaenelle shook her head and took another bite. “No,” she said, swallowing. “It’ll go before it melts. I can’t hold it very long.” She frowned and fluffed her hair as she studied the snow-Graff. “Something’s missing. Something I don’t know about yet that would be able to hold it longer—”

That you can do it at all is beyond what most achieve, Lady.

“—would be able to weave it—”

Daemon shivered. He tossed the apple core toward the bushes for the birds to find. “Don’t think of it,” he said, not caring that his voice sounded harsh.

She looked at him, surprised.

“Don’t think about experimenting with dream weaving without being instructed by someone who can do it well.” He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Weaving a dream web can be very dangerous. Black Widows don’t learn how to do it until the second stage of their training because it’s so easy to become ensnared in the web.” He held her at arm’s length, searching her face. “Promise me, please, that you won’t try to do this by yourself. That you’ll get the very best there is to train you.” Because I couldn’t bear it if there was only a blank-eyed, empty shell to love and I knew you were lost somewhere beyond reach, beyond return.

Daemon’s hands tightened on her shoulders. Her thoughtful expression frightened him.

“Yes,” she said at last. “You’re right, of course. If I’m going to learn, I should ask the ones who were born to it to teach me.” She studied the snow-Graff. “See? Already it goes.”

The snow was starting to lose its shape, to sift into a fluffy pile in the center of the alcove.

Together they air-walked to the main garden path. Dropping into the snow, Jaenelle trudged away from the house for a few feet, turned, and trudged back, kicking up the snow, leaving a very clear trail. Daemon looked back at the unmarked path, considered what the consequences would be if the others found out that Jaenelle could move about without leaving a trace, lowered himself to the ground, and trudged behind her, back to the house.

4 / Terreille

Daemon stormed into his room, slammed the door, stripped off his clothes, showered, and stormed back into the bedroom.

Bitch. Stupid, mewling bitch! How dare she? How dare she?

Leland’s words burned through him. We’re having a gathering this evening, just a few of my friends. You’ll be serving us, of course, so I expect you to dress appropriately.

The cold swept over him, crusting him with glacial calm. He took a deep breath and smiled.

If the bitch wanted a whore tonight, he’d give her a whore.

Lifting one hand, Daemon called in two private trunks. Wherever he traveled, the trunks that contained his clothes and “personal” effects were always openly displayed and the contents could be examined by any Queen or Steward who chose to rummage through his things. Those were the only ones he ever acknowledged. The private trunks contained the items that were, in some way, of value to him.

One of those trunks was half empty and held personal mementos, a testimony to the paucity of his life. It also contained the locked, velvetlined cases that held his Jewels—the Birthright Red and the cold, glorious Black. The other trunk contained several outfits that he sneeringly referred to as “whore’s clothes”—costumes from a dozen different cultures, designed to titillate the female senses.

He opened the costume trunk and examined the contents. Yes, that outfit would do very nicely.

He removed a pair of black leather pants, the leather so soft and cut so well they fit like a second skin. He pulled them on, adjusting the bulge in the front to best advantage. Next came black, ankle-high leather boots with a high stacked heel. The perfectly tailored white silk shirt formed a slashing V from his neck to his waist, where two pearl buttons held it closed, and had billowing, tight-cuffed sleeves. Next he took out the paint pots, and with cold, cruel deliberation, applied subtle color to his cheeks, eyes, and lips. It was done with such skill that it made him look androgynous and yet more savagely male, an unsettling blend. Returning the paint pots to the trunks, he took a small gold hoop from its box and slipped it into his ear. He brushed his hair and used Craft to set it in a rakishly disheveled style. Last was a black felt hat with a black leather band and a large white plume. Standing before the full-length mirror, he carefully set the hat in place and inspected his reflection.

As Daemon smiled in anticipation of Leland’s reaction to his dress, someone quickly tapped on his door before it opened and closed.

He saw her in the mirror. For just a moment, shame threatened to splinter the cold crust of rage, but he held on to it. She was, after all, female. His cruel, sensuous smile bloomed as he turned around.

Jaenelle stared at him, her eyes huge, her mouth dropping open. Daemon did nothing, said nothing. He simply waited for the inspection, waited for the damning words.

She started at his feet, her eyes slowly traveling up his body. His breath hitched when she reached his hips. He waited for the all-too-familiar speculation of what hung between his legs or the quick, flushed glance back down after hurrying past. Jaenelle didn’t seem to notice. Her inspection never changed speed as she studied the shirt, the earring, the face, and finally the hat. Then she started from the hat and went back down.

Daemon waited.

Jaenelle opened her mouth, closed it, and finally said timidly, “Do you think, when I’m grown up, I could wear an outfit like that?”

Daemon bit his cheek. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Buying time, he looked down at himself. “Well,” he said, giving it slow consideration, “the shirt would have to be altered somewhat to accommodate a female figure, but I don’t see why not.”

Jaenelle beamed. “Daemon, it’s a wonderful hat.”

It took him a moment to admit it to himself, but he was miffed. He stood in front of her, on display as it were, and the thing that fascinated her most was his hat.

You do know how to bruise a man’s ego, don’t you, little one? he thought dryly as he said, “Would you like to try it on?”

Jaenelle bounced to the mirror, brushing against him as she passed.

The sudden heat, the jolt of pleasure, the intense desire to hold her against him shocked him sufficiently to make him jump out of her way. His hands shook as he placed the hat on her head, but a moment later he was laughing as the hat rested on the tip of her nose and the only part of her face he could see was her chin.

“You’ll have to grow into it, Lady,” he said warmly. Using Craft, he positioned the hat above her head and locked it on the air.

He instantly regretted it.

She was going to be devastating, he realized as he stared at the face looking at his reflection, his nails biting into his palms.

In that moment he saw the face she would wear in a few years when the pointed features were finally balanced out. The eyebrows and eyelashes. Were they a soot-darkened gold or a gold-dusted black? The eyes, no longer hiding behind childish pretenses, summoned him down a darker road than he had ever known existed, one he felt desperate to follow.

For the first time in his life, Daemon felt a hungry stirring between his legs. He closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, and dug his nails deeper into his palms.

No, he pleaded silently. Not now. Not yet. He couldn’t, mustn’t respond yet. No one must know he could respond. They were lost, both of them, if anyone felt that physical response through the Ring. Please, please, please.

“Daemon?”

Daemon opened his eyes. Jaenelle the child watched him, her forehead puckered in concern. He smiled shakily as he slowly unclenched his hands and took the hat.

“Leland’s guests will be arriving anytime now and I still have to dress, so scat.”

There was something strange about the way she looked at him, but he couldn’t figure it out. Then she was gone, and he slumped on the bed, staring at the open trunk. After a minute, he took off the shirt, pants, and boots and returned them and the hat to the trunk. He vanished both private trunks, taking the time to make sure they were safely stored, before dressing in formal evening attire.

The painted face and the earring would have to do for Leland. The clothes in that trunk would be worn for only one woman’s pleasure.

5 / Terreille

Daemon woke instantly. Something was wrong, something that made his nerves quiver. He lay on his back, listening to the hard, cold rain beat against the windows. Shivering, he tossed back the covers, pulled on his robe, and pushed open the curtains to look outside.

Only the rain. And yet…

Taking a deep, steadying breath, he began a slow descent into the abyss, testing each rank of the Jewels, waiting for the answering quiver along his nerves.

Above the Red, nothing. The Red, nothing. The Gray, the Ebon-gray. Nothing. He reached the level of the Black and pain flooded his nerves as an eerie keening filled his mind, a dirge full of anger, pain, and sorrow. The voice that sang it was pure and strong—and familiar.

Daemon closed his eyes and leaned his head against the glass as he ascended to the Red. No one else here would be able to hear it. No one else would know.

He’d known since he met her that she was Witch—and Witch wore the Black Jewels. He’d known, but he’d been able to deceive himself into believing she’d wear the Black at maturity, not now. In all the Blood’s long history, only a handful of witches had worn the Black, and they had been gifted with it after the Offering to the Darkness. No one had ever worn the Black as their Birthright.

It had been a foolish deceit, especially when the evidence was right in front of him. She could do things the rest of the Blood had never dreamed of. She had sought out the High Lord of Hell to be her mentor. There were facets of her that were breathtaking and terrifying.

Birthright Black. She wore Birthright Black. Sweet Darkness, what would become of her when she made the Offering?

Daemon opened his eyes and saw a small white figure moving slowly along the garden path. He opened his window and was instantly soaked by the cold rain, but he didn’t notice. He whistled once, softly, sharply, sending it on an auditory thread directed toward the figure.

It turned toward him, resigned, and made its way to his window.

Daemon leaned over as Jaenelle floated up to him, grasped her beneath the arms, and pulled her in. He set her on the floor, closed and locked the window, pulled the curtains together. Then he looked at her, and his heart squeezed with pain.

She stood there, shivering, dripping on the rug, her eyes glazed and pain-filled. Her nightgown, bare feet, and hands were muddy.

Daemon picked her up, took her into the bathroom, and filled the tub with hot water. She’d been unnaturally quiet all day, and he’d feared she was becoming ill. Now he feared she was in shock. There were dark smudges beneath her eyes, and she didn’t seem to know where she was.

She struggled when he tried to lift the nightgown over her head. “No,” she said feebly as she attempted to hold the garment down.

“I know what girls look like,” Daemon snapped as he pulled off the nightgown and lifted her into the tub. “Sit there.” He pointed a finger at her. She stopped trying to get out of the tub.

Daemon went into the bedroom and got the brandy and glass he kept tucked in the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Returning to the bathroom, he sat on the edge of the tub, poured a healthy dose into the glass, and handed it to her.

“Drink this.” He watched her take a small taste and grimace before he put the bottle to his own lips and took a long swallow. “Drink it,” he said angrily when she tried to hand him the glass.

“I don’t like it.” It was the first time he’d ever heard her sound so young and vulnerable. He wanted to scream.

“What—” He knew. Suddenly, all too clearly, he knew. The mud, the dirge, her hands cut up from digging in the hard ground, the dirt beneath her fingernails. He knew.

Daemon took another long swallow of brandy. “Who?”

“Rose,” Jaenelle replied in a hollow voice. “He killed my friend Rose.” Then a savage light burned in her eyes and her lips curled in a small, bitter smile. “He slit her throat because she wouldn’t lick the lollipop.” Her eyes slid to his groin before drifting up to his face. “Is that what you call it, Prince?”

Daemon’s throat closed. His blood pounded in him, pounded him, angry surf against rock. It was so very, very hard to breathe.

The sepulchral voice. The midnight, cavernous, ancient, raging voice that held a whisper of madness. He hadn’t imagined it, that other time. Hadn’t imagined it.

Birthright Black.

Witch.

She wanted to kill him because he was male. Accepting that made it easier to be calm.

“It’s called a penis, Lady. I have no use for euphemisms.” He paused. “Who killed her?”

Jaenelle sipped the brandy. “Uncle Bobby,” she whispered. She rocked back and forth as tears slid down her cheeks. “Uncle Bobby.”

Daemon took the glass from her and set it aside. It didn’t matter if she killed him, didn’t matter if she hated him for touching her. He lifted her out of the tub and cradled her in his arms, letting her cry until there were no tears left.

When he felt her breathing even out and knew she was falling into exhausted sleep, he wrapped her in a towel, carried her to her room, found a clean nightgown, and tucked her into bed. He watched her for a few minutes to be sure she was asleep before returning to his room.

He paced, gulping brandy, feeling the walls close in on him.

Uncle Bobby. Rose. Lollipop. How did she know? All day she must have known, must have waited for the night so she could plant her living memento mori. All day, while Robert Benedict had been so conspicuously at home.

If you sing to them correctly, they’ll tell you the names of the ones who are gone.

He snarled quietly. His pacing slowed as cold rage filled him.

There was something wrong with this place. Something evil in this place. Chaillot had too many secrets. Added to that, Dorothea and Hekatah were hunting for Jaenelle, and Greer was still in Beldon Mor sniffing around.

Tersa had said the Priest would be his best ally or his worst enemy.

He would have to decide soon, before it was too late.

Finally, exhausted, he stripped off the robe and fell into bed. And dreamed of shattered crystal chalices.