by Anne Bishop
*Daemon!* Shuveen shouted.
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon,* Boyd and Floyd yapped.
Daemon rose to the killing edge in a heartbeat. Telling a Sceltie to run was the code Jaenelle had established between the Scelties living in Dhemlan and their human families. It meant life-threatening danger, and the dog’s task was to grab the special human friend—usually the child—and get them both out of harm’s way.
*Daemon!*
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*
He used Craft to open the door. Letting the young Scelties in was the only way to shut them up.
“Sylvia isn’t in Halaway,” Jaenelle said. “Or if she is, she’s not able to respond to a psychic call.”
*She is far,* Ladvarian said. *They are visiting. Tildee isn’t sure where.*
“Tildee has Mikal?” Jaenelle asked.
*Yes.*
*Far far far,* the youngsters yapped.
“How far can Tildee reach on a psychic thread?” Daemon asked Jaenelle.
“Not that far,” she replied.
Ladvarian said, *Tildee called. Other Scelties answered, then called to me.*
Daemon swore softly, straining to keep his temper leashed. Upsetting the youngsters wouldn’t get him the information he needed. If that call for help had traveled from Sceltie to Sceltie, Sylvia and her boys could be anywhere in Dhemlan. “Where were the other Scelties? Could you tell?”
All four Scelties spun to face the same direction.
“South,” Daemon snarled. He moved swiftly, out of the room and down the corridors. *Beale, I need a Coach on the landing web, and a driver to come with us.*
“If Tildee is running, someone is going to need a Healer,” Jaenelle said when she caught up to him.
*Rainier!* Daemon called.
*Prince?*
*Contact Sylvia’s Master of the Guard. I want to know exactly where she is and who is with her. There’s trouble. We need to find her.*
*Can you wait for Surreal?*
*Only if she can get to the Hall by the time you have the information. If not, you’ll have to tell her where to meet us.*
*We were on our way home, so I’ll stop at the Master’s house and she’ll come up to the Hall.*
When Daemon and Jaenelle reached the great hall, Beale and Holt were waiting, holding their winter coats.
“The driver will bring the Coach around in another minute or so,” Beale said. He helped Daemon into his coat while Holt helped Jaenelle into hers.
Daemon wanted to snap at the delay. There had been time to bring the Coach around to the landing web in front of the Hall. But he held his tongue. Once they caught the Winds, they would be out of touch, so they couldn’t leave until Rainier found out where Sylvia went.
“There are blankets and winter boots in the Coach,” Beale said. “Mrs. Beale is putting together a basket of food and jugs of water.”
We aren’t going on a picnic, Daemon thought. On the other hand, Tildee was running, and if whatever was happening around Sylvia was as bad as that indicated and Jaenelle was needed as a Healer, he wouldn’t want her eating or drinking anything that didn’t come from the Hall in case it had been tainted in some way.
*Prince?* Rainier called on a spear thread.
*Where is she?*
His temper turned viciously cold as Rainier gave him the information. As soon as Rainier broke the link, he turned to Jaenelle. “Let’s go. Lord Ladvarian, your presence is requested.”
The youngsters whined. Daemon pointed a finger at them, then at Holt and Beale. “You three tell them everything you know about this.” He looked at Beale. “Do whatever you can.”
Beale nodded.
Holt rushed to open the door. Daemon, Jaenelle, and Ladvarian walked out of the Hall.
Within moments of the driver setting the Coach on the landing web, a horse-drawn cab raced up to the Hall’s front doors. Surreal sprang from the cab and ran to the Coach. She didn’t say anything until they were inside and Daemon was settling into the other chair in the driver’s compartment.
*Jaenelle is going in as a Healer?* she asked on a Gray thread.
*Yes,* he replied.
*Then I’ll protect Jaenelle, and you and Ladvarian take care of the rest.*
*Agreed.*
Letting Jaenelle and Ladvarian explain the situation, Daemon lifted the Coach off the landing web, caught the Black Winds, and raced toward a village on the border of Little Terreille.
Sylvia fought her way up from a sludgy kind of sleep. Her legs were filled with a dull, draining ache, and her eyes wouldn’t open. She couldn’t remember where she was or why she felt so strange, but she knew her boys were in danger and needed her. She knew that much.
Then she remembered all of it—the attack, the pain, telling Tildee to run, and Beron coming to help her instead of running away.
Tildee would get Mikal to a safe hiding place. But Beron . . .
She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Her body didn’t work.
She’d died in those moments when her attacker flung her far into the garden. But that had been the body’s death. The Blood had the ability to survive beyond the physical death and become demon-dead.
How long did it usually take to make the transition? Minutes? Hours? How much time had passed?
Her vision was cloudy. Her hearing returned halfway. Was this normal?
That bastard who attacked her was demon-dead. That was why he smelled like rotting meat. Had she managed to damage him at all?
Her fingers twitched. A few moments later, she was able to fist both hands.
Blood was the living river, and through it flowed the power that made the Blood who and what they were—and it was that power that sustained the flesh after the transformation to demon-dead. Dead flesh wasn’t capable of renewing the power, which was why the demon-dead drank the blood of the living.
She had died before completely draining her Purple Dusk Jewel, but there wasn’t much power left, so her Birthright Summer-sky was sustaining her body right now. Once the power completely drained from both Jewels, the final death would occur, and her Self would become a whisper in the Darkness—and she wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect her family from a faceless enemy.
*Beron?* she whispered, not sure if the lack of response meant he was too far away to hear her or meant that he too was dead.
She felt too exposed to send out a psychic call for help that might alert the people in the house to her location. If they weren’t looking for her yet, they would be, for no other reason than to make sure she couldn’t tell anyone about what happened.
Sylvia pushed herself to a sitting position. She wasn’t sure how much power was needed to sustain dead flesh, but she didn’t think she had a lot of time.
If all she wanted to do was gasp out a last message, Halaway would be the prudent destination. But her boys had been lured to this estate in order to be that monster’s prey, so she needed the help of someone who knew the demon-dead and could help her survive long enough to destroy that nameless, faceless enemy.
She needed Saetan.
Using Craft, she floated through the gardens, keeping low to the ground, moving away from garbled sounds that might have been people shouting or dogs barking. When she found a tether line for the White Wind, she caught it and headed north, carefully shifting to a darker Wind whenever she could until she was riding the Purple Dusk Wind to the Keep.
Dropping from the Black Winds, Daemon aimed the Coach at the estate that was a couple of miles from a village on the border of Little Terreille. He didn’t intend to announce his presence until he was right on top of the problem, but since the District Queen who ruled this village didn’t live here, he reached for the males in her home village and let his voice thunder a message through a psychic spear thread: *Get here. Now.*
Once he landed the Coach and let his Black power roll over the land, they would know where to find him—and they would do everything they could to accommodate him, because they, and thei
r Queen, wouldn’t want him looking in their direction. Not when his temper had turned cold and he was riding the killing edge.
The door to the driver’s compartment slid open. Jaenelle said, “We need to find Beron and Sylvia. Mikal should be safe with Tildee.”
*I will find Beron,* Ladvarian said. *I can run faster, and I can smell him, even if he is hiding.*
Daemon didn’t argue, since the dog was right. He wrapped the Coach in a Black sight shield as they approached the estate.
“Front door?” he asked, glancing back as Surreal moved up to join them. Both women now wore trousers, boots, and body-hugging tops that wouldn’t get in the way of fighting or healing.
“Front door,” Jaenelle agreed.
“I’m not sensing anyone in the front lower rooms,” Surreal said. “There are clusters of people in the upper rooms. We should go in fast and quiet.”
“Agreed,” Jaenelle said. “These people haven’t lived around kindred. They have no reason to think Tildee sent a message that could have reached us so fast. If Sylvia and Beron are being held, no one will be expecting us. Not this soon.”
Daemon landed on the drive, using Craft to create a blanket of air so that the Coach silently came to rest just above the gravel.
As soon as the Coach settled, Ladvarian passed through the door and disappeared.
*Sylvia,* Daemon called on a psychic thread. *Sylvia!*
No response of any kind, not even a weak effort of someone sick or injured. *Beron?*
Barely a flicker, but he thought there was some response.
Daemon stepped out of the Coach, then waited for Jaenelle and Surreal. The three of them moved up to the front door together, then passed through it one by one. Daemon took the lead while Surreal guarded their backs. As he headed up the stairs, probing and searching, Ladvarian shouted, *Jaenelle!*
Daemon leaped up the remaining stairs, moving fast to stay ahead of Jaenelle, following the sounds of barking and shouting. He burst into the room, a Black shield fanned out in front of him to protect the women behind him.
A huddle of people—several adults and the boy, Haeze. A Healer cringed near a narrow bed, her eyes on Ladvarian. The Sceltie floated on air above the bed, snapping and snarling to keep the woman away from Beron, who lay in the bed, bloody and too still.
Jaenelle rushed over to the bed. Surreal remained by the door, a knife in her hand. Ladvarian continued snarling at the Healer. And Daemon, riding the killing edge, watched everyone in the room as he assessed the stink of the adults’ psychic scents. Fear, desperation, and a petty satisfaction that it wasn’t their boy lying wounded in the bed. And something more that he couldn’t identify—yet.
“You whoring bitch.”
Planting one knee on air, Jaenelle threw herself across the bed, grabbed the Healer’s Jewel, and channeled a blast of power through cold rage.
Surreal yelped in surprise. Other people screamed, and the Healer shrieked as Jaenelle shattered the woman’s Jewels, both ranking Jewel and Birthright, breaking her back to basic Craft. Windows shattered. The walls of the room cracked in patterns that made Daemon think a violent lightning storm had been etched on the plaster.
He felt as if the Winds had turned into a funnel of speed and power that would sweep away anything in its path, and he was standing at the edge of that fury.
Then the power and fury were gone, reclaimed by the witch who had unleashed it.
Jaenelle opened her hand. The shattered pieces of the Healer’s Jewel fell to the floor, completely empty of power. Pushing against air, Jaenelle returned to the other side of the bed.
“Lady?” Daemon asked sharply.
“She was destroying Beron’s vocal cords under the guise of healing his throat,” Jaenelle snarled.
He didn’t ask how she knew or if she was certain the harm was deliberate. Jaenelle wouldn’t have broken a Healer that way unless she was certain.
Daemon looked at the adults, then at Haeze, who was curled up on the floor.
Everyone in the room had known the bitch was doing it—including the boy who was supposed to be Beron’s friend.
That was the something more he had picked up in their psychic scents—their worry that someone would find out they had stood by and allowed Beron to be harmed.
Well, someone had, and he wasn’t about to overlook or forgive anything.
While Witch’s fury shook the room, Ladvarian had pressed himself against the bed over Beron’s legs. Now he stood up, shook himself vigorously, and looked at Jaenelle. *This room has bad smells, and it is getting cold. You should take Beron to the Coach so you can heal him properly. Surreal will guard you while the Prince and I look for Lady Sylvia.*
*Why aren’t you being that bossy?* Surreal asked Daemon on a Gray thread.
*I wouldn’t have dared. Not yet, anyway,* he replied dryly.
Jaenelle looked at Beron. “Agreed.” She pulled the top sheet loose. Ladvarian jumped off the bed as she floated the boy on air and wrapped the sheet around him.
*Can you handle this?* Daemon asked Surreal.
*Do you have a problem with me burying anyone who upsets her?*
*No problem at all.*
*Then I can handle this.*
Ladvarian went with the women as they hurried to get Beron to the Coach. Daemon remained, his hands in his coat pockets, doing nothing but staring at the people huddled together. Now that Witch was out of the room, he was, once more, the dominant predator.
“Prince?”
The male voice was unfamiliar and cautious. Not surprising, since the man was coming up behind him and wouldn’t want to be mistaken for an enemy.
Looking over his shoulder, Daemon studied the Warlord wearing the badge of a Master of the Guard. “Come in.”
The Master entered the room, flanked by several other Warlords. “Someone has been hurt?”
“The Queen of Halaway’s son,” Daemon replied. “And Lady Sylvia is missing.”
“How may we be of service?” The Master’s voice turned grim.
“Lord Ladvarian and I are going to search the grounds for Lady Sylvia. Have some of your men search the house.” Daemon pointed at the Healer, then at the adults he assumed were Sylvia’s hosts. “Keep them under guard, separately, until I’m ready to have a little chat. Take the boy to his room, under protection.”
“Done,” the Master said.
Daemon walked out of the room as the Warlords swarmed around the people being detained. The Master followed him out.
“Something else?” Daemon asked, pausing at the top of the stairs.
“Does this have anything to do with the missing children?”
Cold rage swept through him, but he kept it chained. “What do you know about missing children?” And why hadn’t you shown some balls and come up to the Hall to tell me about them?
The Master licked his lips, a nervous movement. “Sometimes borders are just lines on a map. The folks living in the towns and villages on the other side of the border in Little Terreille? They’re good people. We have no quarrel with them. When children started going missing, they asked us to keep a lookout for them. Not hard to do. A child from Little Terreille isn’t going to have the looks that would blend in with Dhemlan children, so he’s easy enough to spot. Most of the time, when a youngster runs away, he’s angry or unhappy, but no one has done him real harm, if you understand me.”
“I do. And if you do suspect real harm?”
“The youngster is brought before the Queen and isn’t returned to his family unless she’s satisfied that the reason he left home wasn’t more than growing pains.”
“Do you think the missing children are runaways?”
The Master hesitated, then shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. We’ve checked the runaway houses within our Queen’s territory.”
Most small villages had at least one runaway house—a safe place an unhappy child could go to receive a hug, nutcakes, and a sympathetic ear, or be given some space to brood over some troubl
e at home.
“I want to know if there are any children missing from Dhemlan villages.”
“I’ll check with the village guards, but I haven’t heard of any children going missing,” the Master said. Then he finished grimly, “Which doesn’t mean there haven’t been some that have gone missing.”
“I want daily reports until this is settled,” Daemon said as he started down the stairs.
“You’ll have them.”
“And get in touch with the Province Queen’s Master and make him aware—”
*Daemon!*
The urgency in Ladvarian’s voice made him rush down the rest of the stairs and out of the house. Dim balls of witchlight hung over a spot in the garden, so it wasn’t hard to find the dog.
And it wasn’t hard to see what the Sceltie had found.
Ladvarian circled the lower halves of two severed legs. The legs were bare; the feet were still covered by ankle boots.
*These smell like Sylvia,* Ladvarian growled as he daintily walked on air to avoid leaving paw prints in the blood. *And I smell dead flesh.*
Daemon caught himself before pointing out that the severed legs were dead flesh. The dog had grown up at the Hall and had been given the same training in Protocol as any other young male who had resided there. Ladvarian wouldn’t use a disrespectful description simply because a person was demon-dead, so calling someone “dead flesh” was an indication of the dog’s contempt for the person—an indication that the scent belonged to an enemy.
“Track the dead flesh, but don’t go farther than these gardens,” Daemon said. “I’ll search for Sylvia. And stay shielded.”
*I will.* Ladvarian headed down a path that led away from the house.
Daemon put a Black shield around the legs to prevent anyone from taking them. Then he searched the ground for a blood trail. Nothing clean about the severing, so there should be plenty of blood for him to follow.
Unless the attacker had used Craft and vanished Sylvia. Those personal storage cupboards the Blood created with Craft and power couldn’t support anything that was alive. But you could move a body that way—or kill someone who was wounded.
He found blood splashed over the tops of plants, following a line where there was no trail. Stepping up on air to stand level with the tops of the plants, Daemon created a brighter ball of witchlight and followed the spray until he found a spot in the garden that looked crushed by a body—and he found pools of blood. Not as much as he’d expected, not if Sylvia had still been alive when she’d landed there, but enough to tell him where he needed to look for Halaway’s Queen.