1 / Terreille

As she paced around her bedroom, Alexandra nervously twisted the secondary controlling ring she wore on her right hand. She had done what she had to do. The girl was obviously out of control. Dr. Carvay said Jaenelle had probably been under undue strain for a while, but this last episode—threatening members of Chaillot’s council with a broken bottle and speaking gibberish!

Alexandra knew where to place the blame. She hadn’t wanted to believe Robert’s hints, hadn’t wanted to believe Sadi’s interest in the girls was less than innocent, hadn’t wanted to believe he might actually have…with Jaenelle! With all the perverse things Sadi was capable of doing, was it any wonder that Jaenelle had mistaken the intent of the men who had taken Wilhelmina upstairs so she could rest a bit after overindulging in her first taste of sparkling wine? But to threaten the council, to put them all at risk while Lord Kartane was there and would no doubt send this tale winging back to Hayll! Of course Hayll’s High Priestess would be only too happy to send additional assistance, until Chaillot became a mere puppet dancing while Dorothea held the strings.

Sadi. She would have to send him back to—

Alexandra’s bedroom door clicked as the lock slipped back into place. She whirled, her right hand raised, but before she could use the controlling ring she lay sprawled on the floor, one side of her face ablaze from the blow of a phantom hand.

Pushing herself into a sitting position, Alexandra stared at Daemon, leaning so casually against the door.

“My dear,” he said in a gentle voice so full of murderous rage it terrified her worse than the most violent shout, “if you ever use the Ring on me again, I’ll decorate the walls with your brains.”

“If I use the Ring—”

Daemon laughed. It was an eerie sound—hollow, malevolent, cold. “I can survive a great deal of pain. Can you?” He smiled a brutal smile. “Shall we put it to the test? Your strength against mine? Your ability to withstand what I’ll do to your body—not to mention your mind—while you try to hold me off with that pathetic piece of metal?” He walked toward her. “The trust women have in the Ring is so misplaced. Haven’t you learned that much from the stories you’ve heard about me?”

“What do you want?” Alexandra tried to scoot backward, but Daemon stepped on her dressing gown, pinning her to the floor.

“What I’ve wanted since I came here. What I’ve always wanted. And you’re going to get her back for me. Tonight.”

“I don’t know what—”

“You put her back in that…place, didn’t you, Alexandra? You put her back in that nightmare.”

“She’s ill!” Alexandra protested. “She’s—”

“She isn’t ill,” Daemon snarled. “She was never ill. And you know it. Now you’re going to get her out of there.” He smiled. “If you don’t get her back, I will. But if I have to do it, I’ll flood the streets of Beldon Mor with blood before I’m through, and you, my dear, will be one of the corpses washed into the sewer. Get her out of Briarwood, Alexandra. After that, you won’t have to trouble yourself with her. I’ll take care of her.”

“Take care of her?” Alexandra spat. “You mean twist her, use her for your own perverse needs. Is that why you walk with her in the farthest parts of the garden? So you can fondle…” Alexandra choked, but the words kept tumbling out. “No wonder you can’t act like a man around a real woman. You need to force children—”

“Before you begin accusing me, look to your own house, Lady.” Daemon pulled her to her feet, one hand holding her wrists behind her back while the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head up.

“Get her out, Alexandra,” he said too softly. “Get her out before the sun rises.”

“I can’t!” Alexandra cried. “Dr. Carvay is the head of Briarwood. He’ll have to sign the release papers. So will Robert.”

“You put her in there.”

“With Robert! Besides, she was so distraught, she was heavily sedated and shouldn’t be moved.”

“How long?” Daemon snapped, letting her fall to the floor.

“What?” She felt weak and helpless with him towering over her.

“How long before you can bring her back here?”

Time. She needed a little time. “Tomorrow afternoon.”

When he was silent for so long, she dared to look up, but quickly looked away. She flinched when he squatted beside her.

“Listen to me, Alexandra, and listen well. If Jaenelle isn’t back here, unharmed, by tomorrow afternoon, you, my dear, will live long enough to regret betraying me.”

Alexandra sank full length on the floor, covering her head with her hands. She couldn’t stop seeing that look in his eyes, and she would go mad if she couldn’t stop seeing that look in his eyes. Even when she heard him cross the room, heard the door open and quietly click shut, she was still too frightened to move.

It was so dark.

Alexandra woke, slowly opening her eyes. She was lying on her back in a lumpy, chilly, damp bed.

Something tickled her forehead.

As Alexandra raised her arm to brush the hair from her face, her hand hit something solid a few inches above her head.

Dirt trickled down, hitting her neck and shoulders.

Her other hand pressed against the bed—and found dirt.

She flung her arms out with bruising force—and found dirt.

Her toes, when she stretched her legs a little, found dirt.

No, she thought, fighting the panic, this was a dream. A bad dream. She couldn’t be…buried. Couldn’t be.

Shutting her eyes to keep the dirt out, she blindly explored.

It was a neatly cut rectangle. A well-made grave. If it was a grave, the earth above would be loose. Whoever did this would have had to dig down to put her there.

Half sobbing, half gasping, Alexandra clawed at the dirt above her face. When her hand hit tree roots, she stopped, stunned.

That wasn’t right. Someone would have had to dig around the roots.

Scooting down a little, she began clawing at the dirt again. It was packed solid, frozen.

Think. Think. A witch could pass through solid objects. It was dangerous, yes, but she could do it if she didn’t panic.

Alexandra forced herself to breathe slowly and steadily as she concentrated. Raising one hand, she slowly passed it through the dirt, moving upward, upward, slowly, slowly. She raised her other hand.

Her hands were moving through the dirt, moving upward to freedom.

Alexandra let out a small laugh of relief.

Then her hands hit something more solid than the earth.

Her fingers poked, prodded. She felt nothing, and yet something was there.

Concentrating her energy on making the pass, she pushed against that nothingness while her Opal Jewel glowed with her effort, drawing on her reserves, focusing her strength. She sent the force of the Jewel into her hands and pushed.

A dark, crackling, overwhelming energy snaked down her fingers into her arms. Alexandra shot backward, hitting her head against a dirt wall.

Her strength was gone. The Jewel hung around her neck, dark and empty. If she’d pushed against that energy another moment longer, her Jewel would have broken, and her mind would probably have shattered with it.

“No,” Alexandra moaned. She beat her hands against the floor of her dirt coffin. “No.” She felt dizzy. The air. There was no more air. Gathering her legs beneath her as best she could, Alexandra sprang upward, trying to break free of the earth.

“No!”

Alexandra’s chin hit the end of her bed.

She lay on her stomach, gasping, shivering.

A dream. It was, after all, a dream.

A soft, icy laugh filled her mind. *Not a dream, my dear.* Daemon’s voice rolled through her mind, sentient thunder. *A taste. I’m a very good, very discreet gravedigger. I’ve had centuries of practice. Just remember, Alexandra. If Jaenelle isn’t back, unharmed, by tomorrow afternoon, you will feed the worms.*

He was gone.

Alexandra rolled onto her back. It was a trick, a dream. He couldn’t have.

She raised a shaking hand, closing her eyes against the weak glow of the candle-light.

A dream. An evil dream.

Alexandra pushed herself up on one elbow—and stared at her hands.

Her nails were broken, her hands laced with scratches. Her nightgown was torn and dirt-smeared. A sudden, wet warmth flooded down her legs. She stared at the spreading dampness for a full minute before she understood she had wet herself.

It was almost an hour before she dragged herself off the bed, washed herself, and dressed in a clean nightgown. Then she huddled in a chair with a quilt wrapped around her, staring out the window, desperately waiting for the dawn.

2 / Terreille

Kartane inserted a key into a small, inset door hidden by a row of shrubs. The parents who came to Briarwood during visiting hours didn’t know about that entrance—unless a parent was also a select member. They didn’t know about these softly lit corridors, thickly carpeted to muffle sounds. They didn’t know about the gaming room or the sitting room or the little soundproofed cubicles that were just big enough to hold a chair, a bed, and other amusing necessities. They didn’t know about the tears and screams and pain. They didn’t know about the special “medicines.”

They didn’t know about many things.

Kartane strolled through the corridors to the “playpen,” hungry for some amusement. He was furious with Sadi and that little bitch for spoiling the game tonight. It was hard enough to bring girls in. Oh, they could buy lower-class Blood—the right kind of drink during the right kind of game and a pretty girl became a marker on the card table. But it was the aristos, the girls gently brought up with delicate sensibilities, that were the most fun—and the hardest to procure. It usually took enticing the father in order to get the child…except during Winsol, when a little safframate could be slipped into the sparkling wine. Then the girl could be broken and cleaned up before being brought back to her naive parents. The day after, when the hysteria started, Dr. Carvay would just happen to call and explain to the distraught parents about this prepubescent hysteria that was claiming a number of aristo girls of the Blood. The girl would be tenderly led away for a stay at Briarwood, and in a month or two—or a year or two—she would be returned to the bosom of her family, and eventually married off to spend the rest of her life with that slightly glazed look in her eyes, never understanding her husband’s disappointment in her, never remembering what a fine little playmate she’d once been.

Of course, a few genuinely disturbed girls were also admitted. That little tart Rose had been one. And Sadi’s whey-faced bitch.

Kartane shivered as he stepped into the “playpen,” that guarded room where the girls selected for that evening waited in their lacy nighties for the uncles. The girls didn’t seem to notice the cold, but the attendant had his shoulders hunched and kept rubbing his hands to warm them. It was like this sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.

Kartane’s perusal of the girls stopped when he met a glazed, unblinking sapphire stare.

The attendant followed Kartane’s gaze, shivered, and looked away. “They topped that one up after bringing her in, but something went queer. She oughtta be panting and rubbing against anything that’ll come near her, but she just got real quiet.” He shrugged.

She was nothing to look at, Kartane thought. What was it about her that intrigued Sadi? What was so special about this one that he would risk Dorothea’s vengeance?

Kartane lifted his chin in Jaenelle’s direction. “Have her in my room in ten minutes.”

The attendant flinched but nodded his head.

While he waited, Kartane fortified himself with brandy. He was curious, that was all. If Daemon had taught the girl bedplay, she must know a few amusing tricks. Not that he would actually play with her after Sadi had warned him off. People could disappear so mysteriously after being around the Sadist. And Cornelia’s room…

The brandy churned in Kartane’s stomach. No, he was just curious. He wanted a few minutes alone with her to see if he could understand Daemon’s interest, and he wouldn’t do anything that would provoke the Sadist’s temper.

The finger locks on the cubicles were set high in the wall both in the corridor and in the room itself. That kept anxious little girls from escaping at inconvenient moments. Kartane let himself into the room. Once inside, however, he couldn’t stop shivering.

She was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall like a stiff doll someone had tried to arrange in a realistic pose. Kartane sat on the chair. After studying her for several minutes, he said sharply, “Look at me.”

Jaenelle’s head turned slowly until her eyes locked onto his face.

Kartane licked his lips. “I understand Sadi is your friend.”

No answer.

“Did he show you how to be a good girl?”

No answer.

Kartane frowned. Had they given her something besides safframate? He’d had the shyest, most distraught girls crawling all over him, whimpering and begging, doing anything he wanted when they were dosed with that aphrodisiac. She shouldn’t be able to sit on the bed like that. She shouldn’t be able to sit still.

Kartane’s frown smoothed into a smile. He had decided not to touch her body, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t touch her at all. He wore a Red Jewel. She wore nothing.

He sent a probing link to her mind, intending to at least force open the first barrier and find out what it was Sadi found so intriguing. The first barrier opened almost before he touched it, and he found…

Nothing.

Nothing but a black mist filled with lightning. Kartane had the sensation of standing on the edge of a deep chasm, not sure if stepping forward or back would plunge him into the abyss. He hung there, uncertain, while the mist coiled around him, slithering along the psychic link toward his mind.

The mist wasn’t empty.

Far, far below him, he sensed something dark, something terrifying and savage slowly turning toward him, drawn by his presence. He was caught in a beast’s lair, blind and uncertain whether the attack would come from in front of him or behind. Whatever it was, it was slowly spiraling up out of the mist. If he actually saw it, he’d…

Kartane broke the link. His hands were in front of him, trying to hold an invisible something at bay. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Drawing in ragged breaths, he forced himself to lower his hands.

Jaenelle smiled.

Kartane leaped from the chair and pressed his back against the wall, too frightened to remember how to unlock the door.

“You’re one of us,” Jaenelle said in a hollow, pleased voice. “That’s why you hate us so. You’re one of us.”

“I’m not!” He couldn’t unlock the door without turning around, and he didn’t dare turn around.

“You do to us what was done to you. She lets you be her tool. Even now, though you hate her as much as you fear her, you serve Dorothea.”

“No!”

“Her blood is the only blood that can pay that debt. But your debt is greater. You owe so many. In the end, you’ll pay them all.”

“What are you?” Kartane screamed.

Jaenelle stared at him for a long moment. “What I am,” she said quietly in a voice that sang of the Darkness.

The locked door slid open.

Kartane bolted into the corridor.

The door slid shut.

Kartane leaned against the wall, shaking. Evil little bitch. Sadi’s little whore. Whatever she was, if she joined with the Sadist…

Kartane straightened his clothes and smiled. He wouldn’t soil himself with teaching that little bitch her rightful place. But Greer. Greer had found his visit to Briarwood most gratifying, and he had asked Kartane if he’d noticed any unusual girls.

This one should be unusual enough for his taste.

3 / Terreille

Surreal knelt beside a tree at the back edge of Briarwood’s snow-covered lawn. She had watched Kartane disappear behind some bushes and not come out, so she felt sure there must be a private entrance there.

Surreal frowned. The wide expanse of lawn offered no cover, and if someone came around the building instead of through that door, she might be discovered too soon. To the right of the lawn were the remains of a very large vegetable garden, but that, too, offered no cover. She could use a sight shield, but she wasn’t that adept at creating one and holding it while moving. Surreal shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her as the night wind gusted for a moment.

Something gently brushed her shoulder.

Twisting around, she probed the shrub garden behind her. Finding nothing, she glanced at the tree before focusing her attention once more on the hidden door.

The tree had a perfect branch. With all these girls locked away here, the uncles could at least put up a swing.

The wind died. In the still night air, Surreal heard the click of a door being closed, and tensed. There was enough moonlight to see Kartane leaning against the side of the building for a moment before hurrying away.

More than anything, she wanted to pursue him, find him in some shadowy corner, and watch the blood pump from his throat. Sadi was being unreasonable. He…

The air crackled. The lawn and building looked gauzy. Surreal felt a queer kind of spinning.

Something brushed her shoulder.

Surreal glanced up, stared, then clamped her hand over her mouth.

The girl swinging from the noose tied to the tree’s perfect branch stared back from empty sockets. She and the rope were transparent, ghostly, yet Surreal didn’t doubt she was there, didn’t doubt the dark bloodstains that ran down the girl’s cheeks, didn’t doubt the dark stains on the dress.

“Hello, Surreal,” said a whispery midnight voice. “That’s Marjane. She told an uncle once she couldn’t stand the sight of him, so they smeared honey on her eyes and hung her there. She wasn’t supposed to die, but she struggled so much when the crows came and pecked out her eyes, the knot slipped and the noose killed her.”

“Can’t…can’t you get her down?” Surreal whispered, still not willing to turn around and face whatever was behind her.

“Oh, her body’s been gone years and years. Marjane’s just a ghost now. Even so, when I’m here, she still has some strength. Girls are safe around this tree. Uncles don’t like being kicked.”

Surreal turned and stifled a scream.

“Hush,” Jaenelle said with a savagely sweet smile. She was as transparent as Marjane, and the lacy nighty she wore didn’t move when the wind gusted. Only the sapphire eyes seemed alive.

Surreal looked away. She felt drawn by those eyes, and she knew instinctively that anything drawn into those eyes now would never come back.

“The debt’s not yours to pay, Surreal,” Jaenelle said in her midnight whisper. “He doesn’t owe his blood to you.”

“But the ones he owes can’t call in the debt!” Surreal hissed, keeping her voice low.

Jaenelle laughed. It was like hearing the winter wind laugh. “You think not? There is dead and there is dead, Surreal.”

“He owes me for Titian,” Surreal insisted.

“He owes Titian for Titian. When the time comes, he’ll pay the debt to her.”

“He killed her.”

“No, he broke her, seeded her. A man named Greer, Dorothea’s hound, killed her.”

Surreal brushed at the tears spilling down her cheeks. “You’re dead, aren’t you?” she said wearily.

“No. My body’s still there.” Jaenelle pointed toward Briarwood and frowned. “They gave me some of their special ‘medicine,’ the one that’s supposed to make girls behave, but something went wrong. I’m still connected to my body. I can’t break the link and leave it, but this misty place is very nice. Do you see the mist, Surreal?”

Surreal shook her head.

“When I’m in the mist, I can see them all.” Jaenelle smiled and held out a transparent hand. “Come, Surreal. Let me show you Briarwood.”

Surreal stood up, brushing the snow from her knees. Jaenelle laughed softly. It was the most haunting, terrifying sound Surreal had ever heard.

“Briarwood is the pretty poison,” Jaenelle said softly. “There is no cure for Briarwood. Beware the golden spider who spins a tangled web.” Her hand touched Surreal’s arm, drawing her toward the garden. “Rose said I should build a trap, something that will snap shut if my blood is spilled. So I did. If they spring the trap…dying is what they’ll wish for, but their wish will be long in coming.”

“You’ll still be dead,” Surreal said hoarsely. As she saw the shadows in the garden beginning to take shape, she tried to stop, tried to turn and run, but her legs wouldn’t obey her.

Jaenelle shrugged. “I’ve walked among the cildru dyathe. Hell doesn’t frighten me.”

“She’s too old to be one of us,” said a voice Surreal knew had come, at one time, from a poorer section of Beldon Mor.

Surreal turned. A few minutes ago, seeing a girl walking toward her in a bloody dress with her throat slit would have been a shock. Now it was something her numbed mind cataloged as simply part of Briarwood.

“This is Rose,” Jaenelle said to Surreal. “She’s demon-dead.”

“It’s not so bad,” Rose said, shrugging. “Except I can only cause trouble now after the sun goes down.” She laughed. It was a ghastly sound. “And when I tickle a lollipop, it makes them feel so queer.”

Jaenelle plucked at Surreal’s sleeve. Her smile was sweetly vicious. “Come. Let me introduce you to some of my friends.”

Surreal followed Jaenelle to the garden, grateful that Rose had disappeared.

Jaenelle’s giggle held the echo of madness. “This is the carrot patch. This is where they bury the redheads.”

Two redheaded girls sat side by side in blood-soaked dresses.

“They don’t have any hands,” Surreal said quietly. She felt feverish and slightly dizzy.

“Myrol wasn’t behaving for an uncle and he hurt her. Rebecca hit him to make him stop hurting Myrol, and when he hit Rebecca, Myrol started hitting him, too.” Jaenelle was silent for a moment. “No one even tried to stop the bleeding. They’d been bought from a poor family, you see. Their parents never expected them back, so it didn’t make any difference.” Jaenelle gestured toward the whole garden filled with misty shapes. “None of them were asked about. They ‘ran away’ or ‘disappeared.’”

They walked to the end of the garden.

Surreal frowned. “Why are some of them easy to see and others so misty?”

“It depends on how long they’ve been here, how strong they were when they died. Rose was the only one strong enough to become cildru dyathe who wanted to stay. The other cildru dyathe have gone to the Dark Realm. Char will look after them. These girls have always been ghosts, too strong to slip into the ever-night but not strong enough to move away from where their bodies lay.” Jaenelle nodded to the girl at the end of the garden. To Surreal’s eyes, she looked more vivid, more “real” than Jaenelle. “This is Dannie.” Jaenelle’s voice quivered with pain. “They served her leg for dinner one night.”

Surreal ran for the nearby bushes and retched. When she turned around, the garden was empty. A low wind swept over the snow, wiping away her footprints. When it was done, there was only the building, the empty lawn, and the garden with its secrets.

4 / Terreille

Daemon Sadi watched the sun rise.

All through the long, long night, he’d listened along the Black threads of a psychic web he’d created around Beldon Mor for any disturbance, any indication that Jaenelle might be in danger. Without using the Black Jewels to aid him, it was a strain to keep the web functioning, but like a determined spider, he stayed in the center, aware of the most minute vibration along every strand.

It had been a reluctant gamble to leave her in Briarwood. He didn’t trust Alexandra, but if Jaenelle had been drugged, especially with something like safframate, it was safer for her to come out of it in the same surroundings. He’d seen too many young witches flee into the Twisted Kingdom when their minds couldn’t understand the change in their surroundings, couldn’t comprehend that they were safe. The thought of Jaenelle lost in madness was unbearable, so he could only hope the drugged sleep would make her uninteresting prey. If it didn’t…

There was no reason for him to stay among the living without Jaenelle, but if he did go to the Dark Realm, he promised himself he wouldn’t be the only new subject kneeling before the High Lord.

Daemon stripped off his clothes, showered, dressed in riding clothes, and quietly slipped down to the kitchen. He put a kettle on for coffee and made breakfast. When Jaenelle returned, they would have to leave quickly, not giving Philip or Alexandra any additional time to present obstacles. There would be no time for good-byes. He’d seldom had time for good-byes. Besides, there hadn’t been that many people in his life who’d regretted seeing him go. But there was one here who deserved to know the Lady would be gone forever.

By the time he’d washed his breakfast dishes and was drinking his second cup of coffee, Cook stumbled into the kitchen, sinking heavily into one of the kitchen chairs. She looked at him sadly as Daemon set a cup of coffee in front of her.

“She’s back in that hospital, isn’t she?” Cook dabbed at her eyes.

Daemon sat beside her. “Yes,” he said quietly. He held her hands and rubbed gently. “But not for long. She’ll be out this afternoon.”

“Do you think so?” She gave him a grateful, trembling smile. “In that case, I can—”

“No.” Daemon squeezed her hands. “She’ll be out of Briarwood, but she won’t be coming back.”

Cook withdrew her hands. Her lips quivered. “You’re taking her away, aren’t you?”

Daemon tried to be gentle. “There’s a place she can live where she’ll be cared for and she’ll be safe.”

“She’s cared for here,” Cook protested sharply.

It hurt to watch her eyes fill with tears. “But not safe. If this continues, she’ll break under the strain or die.” He wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I promise you, she’ll be in a safe place, and no one will ever lock her away again.”

Cook dabbed her eyes with her apron. “They’re good people, these folk you found for her? They won’t be…critical…of her odd ways?”

“They don’t think her ways are odd.” Daemon sipped his coffee. This, too, was a gamble. “However, I would appreciate your not mentioning any of this until we’re gone. There are some here who want to harm her, who would use whatever means they could to stop us if they realized I’m going to take her out of their reach.”

Cook thought about this, nodded, sniffed, and rose briskly from the table. “You’ll be needing some breakfast, then.”

“I’ve eaten, thanks.” Daemon set his cup on the counter. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around, and kissed her lightly on the mouth. “You’re a sweetheart,” he said huskily. Then he was out the back door, heading for the stables.

Even this early in the morning, the stables were in an uproar. The stable lads scowled at him as he entered. Guinness stood in the center of the square, a bottle tucked in the crook of his arm, snarling orders and swearing under his breath. When he saw Daemon, his heavy eyebrows formed a fierce line over bleary eyes.

“And what would the high and mighty want at this hour of the morning?” Guinness snapped. He put the bottle to his lips and took a long swallow.

They knew, Daemon thought as he took the bottle from Guinness and helped himself. Whatever it was Jaenelle brought to this place was already fading, and they knew. Handing the bottle back to Guinness, he said quietly, “Saddle Dark Dancer.”

“Have ya been kicked in the head recently?” Guinness shouted, glaring at Daemon. “That one kicked down half his stall last night and tried to turn Andrew into pulp. You won’t get a brisk morning gallop out of him if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Daemon looked over his shoulder. Andrew leaned against the door of Dark Dancer’s stall, favoring one leg. “I’ll saddle him.” Daemon brushed past the stable lads, ignoring Guinness’s dark muttering.

When Daemon pulled the latch to open the top half of the door, Andrew thrust out a shaking hand to stop him. “He wants to kill something,” Andrew whispered.

Daemon looked at the sunken eyes in the pale, frightened face. “So do I.” He opened the door.

The stallion lunged toward the opening.

“Hush, Brother, hush,” Daemon said softly. “We must talk, you and I.” Daemon opened the bottom half of the door. The horse trembled. Daemon ran his hand along Dancer’s neck, regretting having washed Jaenelle’s scent from his skin when the horse turned its head toward him, looking for reassurance. Daemon kept his movements slow. When Dancer was saddled, Daemon led him into the square and mounted.

They went to the tree.

Daemon dismounted and leaned against the tree, staring in the direction of the house. The stallion jiggled the bit, reminding him he wasn’t alone.

“I wanted to say good-bye,” Daemon said quietly. For the first time, he truly saw the intelligence—and loneliness—in the horse’s eyes. After that, he couldn’t keep his voice from breaking as he tried to explain why Jaenelle was never going to come to the tree again, why there would be no more rides, no more caresses, no more talks. For a moment, something rippled in his mind. He had the odd sensation he was the one being talked to, explained to, and his words, echoing back, lacerated his heart. To be alone again. To never again see those arms held out in welcome. To never hear that voice say his name. To…

Daemon gasped as Dark Dancer jerked the reins free and raced down the path toward the field. Tears of grief pricked Daemon’s eyes. The horse might have a simpler mind, but the heart was just as big.

Daemon walked to the field, staring at its emptiness for a long moment before slowly making his way to the wide ditch at the far end.

Would it have been better not to have told him? To have left him waiting through the lonely days and weeks and months that would have followed? Or worse, to have promised to come back for him and not have been able to keep that promise?

No, Daemon thought as he reached the ditch. Jaenelle was Dancer’s Queen. He deserved the truth. He deserved the right to make a choice.

Daemon slid down the side of the deep, wide ditch. Dancer lay at the bottom, twisted and dying. Daemon sat beside him, gently putting the horse’s head in his lap. He stroked Dancer’s neck, murmuring words of sorrow in the Old Tongue.

Finish the kill. Dancer’s strength was ebbing. One narrow, searing probe into the horse’s mind would finish it. Daemon took a deep breath…and couldn’t do it.

If Hell was where the Blood’s dead walked when the body died but the Self was still too powerful to fade into the ever-night, did the kindred Jaenelle spoke of go there too? Was there a herd of demon-dead horses racing over a desolate landscape?

“Ah, Dancer,” Daemon murmured as he continued to stroke the horse’s neck. A mind link now wouldn’t help, but…

Daemon looked at his wrist. Blood. According to the legends, the demon-dead maintained their strength with blood from the living. That’s why blood offerings were made when someone petitioned the Dark Realm for help.

Daemon shifted slightly. Pushing up his right sleeve, he positioned his wrist over Dancer’s mouth. Gathering himself so that what he offered was the strongest he had to give, he nicked a vein with a long nail and watched his blood flow into Dancer’s mouth. Daemon counted to four before pressing his thumb to the wound and healing it with Craft.

All he could do now was wait with his four-footed Brother.

For a long time, while Dancer’s eyes glazed, nothing happened. Then something pricked at Daemon, made the land shift and shimmer. He no longer saw the ditch, no longer felt the cold and wet of the snow-covered ground. In front of him was a huge wrought-iron gate. Beyond it was lightning-filled mist. As he watched, the gate slowly opened with chilling silence. A faint sound came then, muffled, but drawing closer to the gate. Daemon watched Dancer race toward the gate, head high, mane and tail streaming out behind him. A moment later, the stallion was lost in the mist, and the gate swung shut.

Daemon looked down at the unblinking eyes. Gently setting the head on the ground, he climbed out of the ditch and wearily made his way back to the stable.

They all came running when he walked in alone. Daemon looked at Andrew, and only Andrew, when he finally got his voice under control enough to say, “He’s in the ditch.” Not trusting himself to say anything more, Daemon turned abruptly and went back to the house.

5 / Terreille

“I understand your difficulty, Lady Angelline, but you must realize that neither the ambassador nor I has the authority to remove Sadi from service without the High Priestess’s consent.” Greer leaned against the desk, trying to look sympathetic. “Perhaps if you exerted more effort to discipline him,” he suggested.

“Haven’t you been listening to me?” Alexandra said angrily. “He threatened to kill me last night. He’s out of control.”

“The controlling ring—”

“Doesn’t work,” Alexandra snapped.

Greer studied her face. She was pale, and there were dark smudges under her eyes. Sadi had frightened her badly. After so many months of quiet, when Sadi had been almost too accommodating, what had she done to provoke this explosion? “The controlling ring does work, Lady Angelline, if it’s used forcefully enough and soon enough. Even he can’t dismiss the pain of a Ring of Obedience.”

“Is that why so many of the Queens he has served have died?” Alexandra said sharply. She rubbed her temples with her fingertips. “It’s not just me. He’s perverted, twisted.”

Oh? “You shouldn’t allow him to perform any service not to your liking, Lady,” Greer said with sneering sternness.

Alexandra glared at him. “And how do I keep him from performing services on my granddaughters that are not to my liking?”

“But they’re just children,” Greer protested.

“Yes,” Alexandra choked, “children.” There was an edge in her voice that made Greer fight to hide a smile. “He’s all right with the eldest one, but the other…”

Frowning as if this was a difficult decision, Greer said slowly, “I’ll send a message to the High Priestess requesting permission to remove Sadi from Chaillot as soon as possible. It’s the best I can do.” He held up his good hand to cut off Alexandra’s protest. “However, I realize how difficult it may be for you to keep him at your estate, especially if he should, by chance, discover you’ve been to see us. Therefore, I, with an armed escort, will collect him this afternoon and hold him at the embassy until we have the High Priestess’s consent to return him to Hayll.” He held out his hand, smiling. “I will, of course, need your controlling ring to disable him quickly and assure your safety.”

Greer held his breath while Alexandra hesitated. Finally she pulled the secondary controlling ring off her finger and dropped it into his hand. Greer nodded to the ambassador who had been hovering near the door. The man hurried forward and escorted Alexandra out, muttering soothing lies.

Greer waited until the door closed behind them before fumbling to slip the ring over his little finger. He held his left hand out, admiring the gold circle.

Bastard, Greer thought gleefully. I have you now, bastard. First there was Kartane, almost frightened out of his skin, inviting Greer to partake in a “special party” at Briarwood, and now there was this Queen bleating about Sadi’s interest in her granddaughters. And all the time Greer had been searching for the Dark Priestess’s prey, the Sadist was playing with the little hussy while the half-breed sweated and bled in Pruul. If we told him about the offer you sneeringly declined and then stretched you between two posts and handed him a whip, how much of your skin would be left before he became too tired to complete a stroke? And what part of your anatomy might be lacking when he was through?

Greer mentally shook himself. Those tantalizing prospects would have to wait. Here was the chance he’d waited for, the chance to cut Sadi to the core and please the Dark Priestess in the bargain.

Alexandra was a fool to relinquish her only defense against the Sadist. If she’d used the controlling ring with the same brutality he intended to use, she could have brought Sadi to his knees, drained him sufficiently to reduce the threat. And the threat had to be reduced.

He didn’t want Daemon Sadi in any condition to go anywhere tonight.

6 / Terreille

Daemon gave his room a cursory glance. His trunks were packed and vanished so they would travel with him. He’d even slipped into the nursery wing and packed a small suitcase for Jaenelle. It troubled him that he might have left behind something she valued. That cold corner in her wardrobe probably contained her most private possessions, but he didn’t have the time or energy to spare to try to unravel whatever lock she might have on it. He hoped that, once she was safely out of Beldon Mor, he and Saetan could retrieve them for her.

Daemon opened his door, startling Cook, who stood with her hand raised as if she were about to knock.

“You’re wanted in the front hall,” she said worriedly.

Daemon’s eyes narrowed. Why send Cook with the message? “Is Jaenelle back?”

“Don’t know. Lady Angelline was gone for a while this morning, but after she came back, she and Lady Benedict stayed in the nursery with Miss Wilhelmina and Graff. I don’t think Lord Benedict’s home, and Prince Alexander has been in the steward’s office all day.”

Daemon opened his mind to the psychic scents around him. Worry. Fear. That was to be expected. Relief? His golden eyes hardened as he brushed past Cook and glided toward the front hallway. If Alexandra was playing some game…

He entered the main hallway and saw Greer with twenty armed Hayllian guards. A moment later, the pain from the Ring almost made his legs buckle. He fought to stay on his feet as he flicked a dagger glance at Alexandra, who stood to one side with Leland and Philip.

“No, Sadi,” Greer said in his oily voice, “you answer to me now.” He raised his good hand so that the gold controlling ring caught the light.

“Bitch,” Daemon said softly, never taking his eyes off Greer. “I made you a promise, Lady Angelline, and I always keep my promises.”

“Not this time,” Greer said. He closed his hand and thrust it forward. The controlling ring flashed.

Daemon staggered backward, grabbing the wall for support as the pain from the Ring increased.

“Not this time,” Greer said again, walking toward Daemon.

The cold. The sweet cold.

Daemon counted to three, thrust his right hand toward Greer, and unleashed a wide band of dark energy. Philip, wearing the Gray Jewel, thrust his hand forward at the same time. The two forces met, exploding the chandelier, snapping the furniture to kindling. Three of the guards fell to the floor, twitching. Greer shrieked with rage. Leland and Alexandra screamed. Philip continued to channel his strength through the Gray Jewel, trying to break Daemon’s thrust, but the Black leached around the Gray, and where it did, the walls scorched and cracked.

Daemon braced himself against the wall. Greer continued channeling power into the Ring, intensifying the pain. Dying would be better than surrendering to Greer, but there was one chance—if he could get there intact enough to do what he had to do.

Unleashing a large ball of witchfire, Daemon made a last thrust against the Gray, counting on Philip to meet the attack. When the witchfire met the Gray shield, it exploded into a wall of fire.

Daemon pushed off from the wall and ran toward the back of the house. The pain got worse as he ran through the corridors to the kitchen. Too late he saw the young housemaid on her knees and the puddle of soapy water. He leaped, missing the girl, but his foot landed at the edge of the puddle, and he slip-skidded until his hips hit the kitchen table, pitching him forward.

The pain in his groin was agony.

Daemon clenched his teeth, drawing on his anger because he didn’t dare draw on the Jewels. Not yet.

Two pairs of arms grabbed his shoulders and waist. Snarling, he tried to twist free, but Cook’s “Hurry up, now” cleared his head sufficiently to realize she and Wilhelmina were trying to help him. The young housemaid, tight-lipped and pale, ran ahead of them and opened the door.

“I’m all right,” Daemon gasped as he grabbed the doorway. “I’m all right. Get out of here. All of you.”

“Hurry,” Cook said. She gave him a shove that almost knocked his feet from under him. As he stumbled and half turned, the last thing he saw before the kitchen door closed was Cook grabbing the pail of soapy water and flinging it across the kitchen floor.

Another burst of pain from the Ring forced him to his knees. He stifled a scream, jerked himself to his feet, and stumbled forward until the momentum pushed him into a run toward the stables and the path that would lead to the field.

The pain. The pain.

Each step was a knife in Daemon’s groin as Greer continued to channel his power through the controlling ring into the Ring of Obedience.

Daemon ran along the bridle path past the stables, vaguely aware of Guinness and the stable lads pouring out of the yard to form an angry, solid wall at his back. He ran down the snowy path until another burst of pain from the Ring pulled his legs out from under him. He flew through the air as his momentum carried him forward before hitting the ground with a bone-jarring thud.

Daemon sobbed as he tried to get to his knees. Behind him was a faint, muffled sound. He turned his head, trying to see through tears of pain. There was nothing there, but the sound kept coming toward him, finally stopped beside him. Daemon flung out an arm to get his balance.

His hand hit a leg.

He saw nothing, but he could feel…

“Dancer?” Daemon whispered as his hand traveled upward.

A moist warmth blew in his face.

Clenching his teeth, Daemon got to his feet. He was running out of time. His hands found the phantom back. Daemon propelled himself onto the demon stallion’s back, gasping as he pulled his leg around. With his head bent low over Dancer’s neck and his hands twisted in the mane for balance, Daemon tightened his knees, urging Dancer forward.

“To the tree, Brother,” Daemon groaned. “As fast as you can fly, get me to the tree.”

Daemon almost fell when Dancer surged forward, but he hung on, grimly determined to reach the one escape left to him.

When they reached their destination, Daemon slid from the horse’s back, remembering in time what Jaenelle had taught him about air walking. For a moment, he lay on his side in the air, his knees curled to his chest, fighting the pain and gathering his strength.

Deep beneath this tree was a neatly cut rectangle already protected by a Black shield that would keep the others out just as much as it had kept Alexandra in.

Daemon looked back. Apparently demons didn’t leave tracks. And he, fortunately, hadn’t left any telltale marks in the snow. All he needed was a few uninterrupted moments to make the pass.

Fighting for patience, Daemon waited for the next burst of pain from the Ring. Once it passed, he could slip down into the earth. Behind him were shouts, sounds of fighting. He waited, feeling his strength seeping out of him as the cold and pain seeped in.

Just as Daemon decided not to wait, the pain hit again. He twisted and rolled, trying to escape it. This time, however, there was no letup. Greer was sending a steady pulse through the controlling ring into the Ring of Obedience.

Daemon crawled on air until he was over the proper place. There was no more time. With his hands clenched so hard his nails broke his skin, he took a deep, shuddering breath, closed his eyes, and plunged downward into the earth.

The moment he felt emptiness instead of earth, he pulled his feet forward so they wouldn’t be locked in the frozen ground and stop the pass. He felt his pant legs catch in the earth above him, felt the skin on his knees tear as they ripped through the last crust of earth. Landing squarely on his back, it took him a moment to get his breath.

A moment was all he had. They might not be able to reach him physically, but the pain still pulsed through the Ring. Not even the Black shield could protect him from that.

With shaking hands, Daemon undid his belt, unzipped his trousers, and reached down to close his right hand on his organ and the Ring of Obedience. He screamed when his fingers accidentally touched his balls. Taking sobbing, gasping breaths, Daemon kept his hand steady and called in the Black Jewels.

It had been so very long since he’d felt a Jewel around his neck or on his finger. They pulsed with his heartbeat as he drew on their stored energy. It was a risk. He’d always known it was a risk. But there was something at stake now more important than his body. Taking a deep breath, Daemon turned inward and plunged toward the Black.

It was an oiled high dive speeding him into the Darkness, faster and faster as he hurtled toward the shimmering dark web that was himself, gaining speed as he unleashed his rage. He continued to plunge downward as his web seemed to rush upward to meet him. There was no time to check his descent. If he missed the turn and shattered the web, the least he would do was break himself, stripping himself of the ability to wear the Black or, possibly, even his Birthright Red. If he couldn’t stop his descent and continued falling into the abyss, he would die or go mad.

Daemon pushed faster, watching for the moment when he could make the turn and draw the most from himself. A long way away, he could feel the tight agony in his heels and the corded muscles in his neck as they supported the arched, pain-racked body. Still he plunged downward. At the last moment he turned, tight to the web, drew all the reserve power out of his Black Jewels and hurtled upward, a tidal wave of cold black rage, a dark arrow speeding toward the center of a gold circle.

All the way up, Daemon kept his strength tight and rapier-thin, but the moment he pierced the center of the circle, he unleashed all of his Black strength. It exploded outward, forcing the circle to expand with him until it shattered under the strain.

Daemon slowly opened his eyes. He shook from exhaustion, shivered from cold. The smallest movement, even breathing, brought excruciating pain. Reaching down with his left hand, Daemon felt for the Ring of Obedience. When he drew his hands toward his chest, each hand held half a Ring.

He was free.

Since his Black Jewels were completely drained, he vanished them and called in his Birthright Red in order to do one last thing.

If Dorothea or Greer had escaped the shattering of the Ring, they could still use one of the controlling rings to trace the pieces to his hiding place.

Daemon closed his eyes, concentrated on a spot he knew well, and vanished the two pieces of the Ring of Obedience.

In a small alcove, the two halves of the Ring hovered in the air for a moment before dropping into the snowy bed of witchblood.

Daemon’s last conscious thought was to call in a blanket, charge it with a warming spell, and wrap it around himself as best he could. The psychic web he’d created was gone. There was no way to tell if Jaenelle was still unharmed. There was nothing he could do for her right now. There was nothing more he could do for himself. Until his body had some rest, he didn’t have the strength to get out of his grave.

7 / Terreille

Cassandra paced.

The mist around Beldon Mor kept Guardians and the demon-dead out. It didn’t keep things in.

Thankfully, she’d been wearing the Black Jewel instead of her Birthright Red when the rippling aftershock of Sadi hurtling toward the Darkness hit her. Even with that much protection, her body had vibrated from the intensity of the dive.

As she’d picked herself up off the floor, she’d wondered how many of the Blood, not trained well enough to know that one must ride with those psychic waves instead of trying to shield against them, had been shattered, or at least broken back to their Birthright Jewel.

And what about Jaenelle? Had he turned against her? Was she fighting against him for her life?

Cassandra shook her head and continued pacing. No, he loved the girl. Then why the descent? She feared him now as much as she feared his father, but didn’t he realize she would stand with him, fight with him to protect Jaenelle?

Descending slowly to the Black, she closed her eyes and opened her mind, sending a probing shaft westward on a Black thread. The probe hit the mist, penetrating just a little for just a moment before fading away.

It was enough.

She spent the next hour cleaning the Altar, polishing the four-branched candelabra, digging out the stubs of the old black candles and replacing them with new candles. When she was done, the Altar was once again ready to be what it was, what it had not been for centuries.

A Gate.

She bathed in hot scented water, washed and dressed her hair. She slipped on a simple gown of black spidersilk that molded itself to her body. Her Black Jewel in its ancient setting filled the dress’s open neckline. The Black-Jeweled ring, in its deceptively feminine setting, slipped easily onto her finger. Two silver cuff bracelets with chips of her Red Jewel embedded in the center of an hourglass pattern fit over the tight sleeves of her dress. Last came the black slippers, made by forgotten craftsmen, which never betrayed a footfall.

She was ready. Whatever storm the night would bring, she was ready.

With a listening, thoughtful expression on her face and a faraway look in her emerald eyes, Cassandra settled down to wait.

8 / Terreille

As the slaves were brought up from the salt mines of Pruul, Lucivar turned toward the west. The salt sweat stung the new cuts on his back. The heavy chains that manacled his wrists to his waist pulled at his already aching arms. Still he stood quietly, breathing the clean evening air, watching the last sliver of sun sink beneath the horizon.

He’d ridden the dark aftershocks that hit Pruul with a lover’s passion, using his Ebon-gray strength to fortify those waves and keep them rolling east a little longer. His only regret was not joining Sadi in the bloodletting. Not that the Sadist needed his help. Not that it would be safe to be in the same city with a man that deeply enraged.

As a frightened guard shook his whip at the slaves to begin leading them to their dark, stinking cells, Lucivar smiled and whispered, “Send them to Hell, Bastard. Send them all to Hell.”

9 / Terreille

Philip Alexander sat at his desk, his head braced in his hands, staring at the shattered Gray Jewel.

It had taken—what—a minute? A bare minute to produce so much destruction? Some of the guards had felt it first, a shuddery feeling, like trying to stand against a strong wind that kept growing stronger. Then Leland. Then Alexandra. He’d been puzzled, in those moments, wondering why they had become so pale and still, why they all were straining to hear something. When it hurtled past the Gray, heading downward, he’d had a moment, just a moment, to realize what it was, a moment to throw his arms around Leland and Alexandra, pulling them to the floor, a moment to try to form a Gray shield around the three of them. A moment.

Then his world exploded.

He had held on for less than a minute before that titanic explosion of Black strength shattered the Gray and swept him along like driftwood caught in a wave before the wave smashes it into the sand. He’d felt Alexandra try to hold him before she, too, was swept away.

A minute.

When it was over, when his head finally cleared…

Of the Hayllian guards who had remained in the hall, all but two were dead or had their minds burned away. Leland and Alexandra, shielded from the first impact, were shaken but all right. He’d been broken back to the Green, his Birthright Jewel.

Still in shock, the three of them had staggered from the hall. They had found Graff in the nursery wing, staring empty-eyed at the ceiling, her body twisted and torn almost beyond recognition.

Most of the staff had come away from the psychic explosion frightened but intact. They’d found them huddled in the kitchen where Cook, with shaking hands, liberally filled cups with brandy.

Wilhelmina had frightened them. She had sat quietly in the kitchen chair, cheeks glowing with color, eyes flashing. When Philip had asked if she was all right, she had smiled at him and said, “She said to ride it, so I did. She said to ride it.”

In that moment before the world exploded, he had heard a young, commanding female voice shouting “Ride it, ride it,” but he hadn’t understood—and still didn’t. What was more frightening, Wilhelmina now wore a Sapphire Jewel. Somehow, in that chaos, she had made her Offering to the Darkness, too young. Now that inexperienced girl was stronger than any of them.

Worst of all was the betrayal of Guinness and the stable lads, particularly Andrew. They had fought against the Hayllian guards, holding them up. If they hadn’t interfered, Sadi might have been caught and Beldon Mor…Well, he had dismissed Guinness and Andrew and the others who’d survived. There was no reason to keep traitors, especially traitors who said…who called him…That they would side with Sadi against her family!

Philip closed his eyes, rubbed his aching temples. Who would have thought one man could destroy so much in a minute? Half the Blood in Beldon Mor were dead, mad, or broken.

Philip let out a sighing sob. His body was almost too weak to wear the Green, but he would recover. That much he would recover.

Half the Blood. If Sadi had struck again…

But after the ripples had finally passed, there had been no sign of Daemon Sadi.

And no one knew what had become of Greer.

10 / Terreille

Surreal sat with her back against the headboard, sipping from the whiskey bottle she hugged to her chest.

She and Deje had spent the past few hours looking after the other girls, sedating those who needed it, letting the rest get blistering drunk. Deje, her face gray with the strain, had gratefully let Surreal take care of the bodies. Fortunately there weren’t many, the day after the Winsol holidays always being a slow time for Red Moon houses. Even so, she’d had to bundle them up in blankets before even the brawniest of Deje’s male staff would enter the rooms and lug the bodies out.

Everyone, including herself, stank of fear.

But he was, after all, the Sadist.

It would have been worse, she told herself as she continued to sip the whiskey. It would have been much, much worse, if Jaenelle hadn’t shouted that warning to ride it out. Funny. Every witch in Deje’s house who wore a Jewel heard that warning and knew on some instinctive level what it meant. The men…There wasn’t time for Jaenelle to be selective. Some heard her, some didn’t. That’s all there was to it. Those who didn’t were dead.

What had happened to send him into such a rage? What sort of danger could have provoked that kind of unleashing?

Maybe the question to ask was, who was in danger?

Calmed by her own rising anger, Surreal set the whiskey bottle on the nightstand and called in a small leather rectangle. As soon as she was done, she’d get a little sleep. It was unlikely that anything would happen before tonight. The Sadist had seen to that, whether he’d meant to or not.

With her lips curved in the slightest of smiles, Surreal hummed softly as she slipped the whetstone out of its leather pouch and began sharpening her knives.

11 / Terreille

Dorothea watched the flames in the fireplace dance. Any moment now, the Dark Priestess would arrive at the old Sanctuary. Then she could give the bitch the message and return home.

Who would have thought he could break a Ring of Obedience? Who would have thought, with him being on the other side of the Realm, shattering the Ring could…

How very fortunate that she’d started letting each of the young witches in her coven wear the primary controlling ring for a day, letting them “get the feel” of handling a powerful male, even if he was so far away they couldn’t really feel anything at all. How very unfortunate her favorite witch, her little prize who had shown so much potential, had been the one wearing it today.

Since the body, although empty of the witch herself, still lived, she would have to keep it around for a little while so the others wouldn’t realize how disposable they really were. A month or two would be enough. The witch would, of course, be buried with dignity, with full honors commensurate with her Jewels and social rank.

Dorothea shuddered. Sadi was out there, somewhere, with no leash to hold him. They could try to use the Eyrien half-breed as bait to draw him back, but Yasi was so nicely tucked into Pruul’s salt mines, and it would be a shame to pull him out before he was sufficiently broken in body and spirit. Besides, she doubted that even the Eyrien would be sufficient bait this time.

The sitting room door opened for the hooded figure.

“You sent for me, Sister?” Hekatah said, making no attempt to keep her annoyance out of her voice. She looked pointedly at the small table, empty of her expected carafe of blood. “It must be important to have made you forget such a paltry thing as refreshment.”

“Yes, it is.” You bag of bones. You parasite. All Hayll is in danger now. I am in danger now! Careful not to let her thoughts become apparent, Dorothea held up a note, slipping it in and out of her fingers. “From Greer.”

“Ah,” Hekatah said with barely suppressed excitement. “He has some news?”

“Better than that,” Dorothea answered slowly. “He says he has found a way to take care of your little problem.”

12 / Terreille

Greer sat on the white-sheeted bed in one of Briarwood’s private rooms, cradling what was left of his good hand.

It could have been worse. If that limping stable brat hadn’t slashed at him with a knife, slicing through his little finger so it only hung by a thread of skin, he never would have gotten the secondary controlling ring off in time when Sadi broke the Ring of Obedience. In that moment when he’d felt the Black explode, he’d ripped the finger off and flung it away from him. A guard, seeing something hurled toward him, grabbed instinctively, his hand closing around the ring.

Foolish man. Foolish, foolish man.

With the Ring of Obedience broken and with no way to know if Sadi had been hurt by the effort, Greer had run to Briarwood, where the healing would be done without questions. It was also the only place the Sadist wouldn’t strike at blindly. Here they had some leverage—at least for a few hours more. After that he would be gone, speeding back to Hayll to melt away among the many, encircled by Dorothea’s court. Briarwood and its patrons would still be here to quench Sadi’s thirst for vengeance.

Greer lay down on the bed, letting the painkillers lull him into much-needed rest. In a few short hours, the Dark Priestess’s little problem would be no more, and Sadi…

Let the bastard scream.

13 / Hell

Saetan made another erratic circuit around his private study. He stared at Cassandra’s portrait.

He stared at the tangled web he’d finished a short time ago, at the warning that may have come too late.

He shook his head slowly, denying what the vision in the tangled web had shown him.

An inner web still intact. A shattered crystal chalice. And blood. So much blood.

He had never invaded Jaenelle’s privacy. Against his better judgment, against all his instincts, he had never invaded her privacy. But now…

“No,” he said with soft malevolence. “You will not take my Queen from me. You will not take my daughter.”

There was only one place from which he could penetrate the mist. Only one place he could use to amplify his strength to reach across the Realm. Only one witch who had the knowledge to help him do it.

Throwing his cape over his shoulders, he flicked a glance at the door, tearing it off the hinges. Gliding through the deep corridors of the Hall, his rage glazing the rough stones with ice, he brushed past Mephis and Prothvar, seeing no one, seeing nothing but that web.

“Where are you going, SaDiablo?” Andulvar called, striding to intercept him.

Saetan snarled softly.

The Hall trembled.

Andulvar hesitated for only a moment before setting himself squarely in the path of the High Lord of Hell.

“Yaslana.” The rage had become very quiet, very still.

This was what they feared in him.

“You can tell me where you’re going, or you can go through me,” Andulvar said calmly. Only a tiny muscle tic in his jaw betrayed him.

Saetan smiled, raising his right hand in a lover’s caress. Remembering in time that this man was his friend and also loved Jaenelle, he sheathed the snake tooth, and the hand gently squeezed Andulvar’s shoulder.

“To Ebon Askavi,” he whispered as he caught the Black Wind and vanished.