"Damn," she said as Daemon held her arm to steady her. "Hold still a minute, would you, sugar?" She put a hand on his shoulder, leaned against him, and fiddled with her shoe. "There's someone looking for you." She felt him tense, saw the small ring of frost around his feet.
"Oh? Why?"
Still fiddling with her shoe, Surreal couldn't see his face, but she knew there would be nothing but a bored, slightly put-upon expression despite the silky chill in his voice.
"She thinks you're interested in a child here, one, apparently, of great interest to her, one that Dorothea wants out of the way. If I were you, I'd watch my back. She didn't hire me for a contract, but that doesn't mean she hasn't been interviewing others who would be willing to have a try at you." She put her foot down and wobbled her ankle as if testing it.
"Do you know who she is?"
Surreal frowned and shook her head, still studying her shoe. "A witch staying at Cassandra's Altar. No way to tell how long she's been there. There are a couple of rooms fixed up. That's about it. I've stayed in worse places."
Daemon kept his head turned away from her. "Thank you for the warning. Now if you'll ex—"
"Prince? Prince, you must come and see."
Surreal turned toward the sound of the girl's voice. It sounded like silk feels, she thought as the thin, golden-haired girl skipped around the bend and stopped in front of them, her smile warm, her eyes—eyes that seemed to shift color depending on the way the sunlight found its way through the leaves—full of high spirits and curiosity.
"Hello," the girl said as she studied Surreal's face.
"Lady," Surreal replied, trying to sound respectful and dignified, but she'd heard Sadi's exasperated sigh and wanted to laugh.
"We should be getting back," Daemon said, moving to the girl's side and trying to turn her toward the private gardens.
Surreal was about to slip away when she heard Daemon say, "Lady." The coaxing, pleading note in his voice rooted her to the path. She'd never heard him sound like that. She looked at the girl, who had planted her feet and refused to be turned.
"Jaenelle," he said a bit desperately.
Jaenelle ignored him as she studied Surreal's face and chest.
That was when Surreal realized that the Gray Jewel had slipped out from under her shirt when she bent over to examine her shoe. She looked at Daemon, silently asking what she should do.
As Daemon gently squeezed Jaenelle's shoulder to get her attention, Jaenelle said, "Are you Surreal?" When Surreal didn't answer, Jaenelle tipped her head back to look at Daemon. "Is she Surreal?"
Daemon's face had a guarded, trapped look. He took a deep breath and released it, slowly. "Yes, she's Surreal."
Jaenelle clasped her hands in front of her and smiled happily at Surreal. "I have a message for you."
Surreal blinked, totally at a loss. "A message?"
"Lady, just give her the message. We have to go," Daemon said, trying to put some strength into his words.
Jaenelle frowned at him, obviously puzzled by his lack of courtesy, but she obeyed. "Titian sends her love."
Surreal's legs buckled at the same time Daemon grabbed her. "Is this your idea of a joke?" she whispered savagely, hiding her face against his chest.
"May the Darkness help me, Surreal, this is no joke."
Surreal looked up at him. Fear, too, was something she'd never heard in his voice. She braced herself and stepped away from him. "Titan is dead," she said tightly.
Jaenelle looked even more puzzled. "Yes, I know."
"How do you know Titian?" Daemon asked quietly, but his voice vibrated with tension. He shivered, and Surreal knew it had nothing to do with the fresh little breeze that had sprung up.
"She's Queen of the Harpies. She told me her daughter's name is Surreal, and she told rne what she looked like, and she told me her Jewel's setting might look like the family crest. The Dea al Mon usually wear it in silver, but the gold looks right on you." Jaenelle looked at them. She was still pleased that she'd been able to deliver the message, but their reactions made no sense.
Surreal wanted to run, wanted to escape, wanted to hold on to this child who didn't think it strange to be a bridge between the living and the dead. She tried to say something, anything, but only an inarticulate sound came out, so she looked to Daemon for help and realized he wasn't standing on solid ground either.
Finally he shook himself, slipped an arm around Jaenelle's shoulders, and led her toward the private gardens.
"Wait," Surreal called. She swayed but stayed on her feet. Tears filled her eyes, filled her voice. "If you should see Titian again, send my love in return."
The smile she saw through the blur of tears was gentle and understanding. "I will, Surreal. I won't forget."
Then they were gone.
Surreal stumbled to a tree and wrapped her arms around it, tears streaming down her cheeks. Dea al Mon. The family name? The people Titian had come from? She didn't know, but it was more than she'd ever had before. She felt torn apart inside, and yet, for the first time since she'd stumbled into that room and saw Titian lying dead, she didn't feel alone.
4 / Terreille
As Cassandra opened the cupboard where she kept the wineglasses, she felt the dark male presence at the kitchen door, that unmistakable scent of the Black. Without turning, she reached for a wineglass and said, "I didn't expect you until later."
"I'm surprised you expected me at all."
She missed the glass. Only one male's psychic scent could be mistaken for Saetan's. Buying time while she vanished the Red Jewel and called in her Black, she took two glasses from the cupboard and set them on the counter before turning around.
He leaned against the door frame, his hands in his trouser pockets.
Ah, Saetan, look what you've sired. Cassandra's heart beat in an odd little rhythm as she admired his body and the almost too beautiful face. If there had been the merest hint of seduction in the air, her ancient pulse would have been racing. But there was only a bone-chilling cold and a look in his eyes that she couldn't meet.
Think, woman, think. She was a Guardian, one of the living dead, but he didn't know that. If he damaged her body, she could instantly make the transition to demon and keep fighting. She doubted he had the knowledge or skill to destroy her completely. Black against Black. She could hold her own against him.
She glanced at his eyes and knew, with shocking certainty, that it wasn't true. He had come for the kill, and he knew exactly who and what she was.
"You disappoint me, Cassandra. Your legends paint you differently," Daemon said softly, his voice thick with malevolence.
"I'm a Priestess serving at this Altar," she said, working to keep her voice steady. "You're mistaken if you think—"
He laughed softly. She stepped back from the sound and found herself pressed against the counter.
"Do you think I can't tell the difference between a Priestess and a Queen? And the Jewels, my dear, name you for what you are."
She bent her head slightly in acknowledgment. "So I'm Cassandra. What do you want, Prince?"
He eased away from the door and stepped toward her. "More to the point, Lady"—he put a nasty edge on the word—"what do you want?"
"I don't understand." Training demanded she stand her ground. Instinct screamed at her to run.
He kept moving toward her, smiling as she edged around the table to keep it between them. It was a seducer's smile, soft and almost gentle, except it was carved from ice. "Who are you waiting for?" He withdrew his hands from his pockets.
Cassandra glanced at his hands. The momentary relief of not seeing a ring on his right hand was stripped away by the realization of how long he wore his nails. Mother Night, he was his father's son! She kept easing around the table. If she could get to the door . . .
Daemon changed directions, blocking her escape. "Who?"
"A friend."
He shook his head in mocking sadness.
Cassandra stopped moving. "Would y
ou like some wine?" He was dangerous, dangerous, dangerous.
"No." He paused and studied the nails on his right hand. "You don't think I can create a grave deep enough to hold you, do you?" His voice was silky, crooning, almost sleepy. Terrifying. And familiar. Another deep voice with a slightly different cadence, but the crooning rage was the same. "For your information, just in case you've been considering it, I know you can't create one deep enough to hold me."
Cassandra lifted her chin and looked him in the eye. She'd used that pause to put a strengthening spell on her nails, making them as strong and sharp as daggers. "Maybe not, but I'm going to try."
Daemon lifted one eyebrow. "Why?" he asked too gently.
Cassandra's temper flared. "Because you're dangerous and cruel. You're Hekatah's puppet and Dorothea's pet sent here to destroy an extraordinary witch. I won't let you. I won't. You may put me in the grave for good, but I'll give you a taste of it, too."
She flung herself at him, her hand curved and ready, the Black Jewel blazing. He caught her wrists, holding her off with an ease that made her scream. He hit the Black shields on her inner barriers hard enough to make her work to keep them intact, but they wouldn't keep him out for long. She was draining her Jewels and he hadn't tapped his yet. When her Black were drained, there would be no way to stop him from shattering her mind.
She tried to twist away from him, tried to eliminate the immediate physical danger so she could concentrate on protecting her mind. Then she froze as his snake tooth pressed into her wrist. She didn't think his venom would be deadly to a Guardian, but if he pumped his full shot into her, it would paralyze her long enough for him to pick her apart at his leisure.
She looked up at him defiantly, her teeth bared, ready to fight to the end. It was the look on his face, the change in his eyes that arrested her. There was wariness there. And hope?
"You don't like Dorothea," he said slowly, as if puzzling out a difficult problem.
"I like Hekatah even less," she snapped.
"Hekatah." Daemon released her, swearing softly as he paced the room. "Hekatah still exists? Like you?"
Cassandra sniffed. "Not like me. I'm a Guardian. She's a demon."
"I beg your pardon," he said dryly as he prowled the room.
"Are you saying you weren't sent here to kill the girl?" Cassandra rubbed her sore wrists.
Daemon stopped pacing. "I'll take some wine, if you're still offering it."
Cassandra got the glasses, a bottle of red wine, and the decanter of yarbarah. Pouring a glass of each, she handed him the wine.
Daemon tested it, sniffed it, and took a sip. One eyebrow rose. "You have excellent taste in wine, Lady."
Cassandra shrugged. "Not my taste. It was a gift." When he didn't say anything else, she prodded, "Is that why you're here?"
"Perhaps," he said slowly, thinking it over. Then he smiled wryly. "I was of the opinion that I was sent here because I had been a bit too troublesome of late and there wasn't another court that would have me, or another Queen that Dorothea was willing to sacrifice in order to blunt my temper." He sipped the wine appreciatively. "However, if what you believe is true—and recent events do seem to support that belief—it was a grave error on her part." He laughed softly, but there was a brutality to the sound that made Cassandra shiver.
"Why is it an error? If she offered you something of value to—"
"Like my freedom?" The wariness was back in his eyes. "Like a century of not having to kneel and serve?"
Cassandra pressed her lips together. This was going wrong, and if he turned against her again, he wouldn't relent a second time. "The girl means everything to us, Prince, and she means nothing to you."
"Nothing?" He smiled bitterly. "Do you think that someone like me, having lived as I've lived, being what I am, would destroy the one person he's been looking for his whole life? Do you think me such a fool I don't recognize what she is, what she'll become? She's magic, Cassandra. A single flower blooming in an endless desert."
Cassandra stared at him. "You're in love with her." Sudden anger washed over her at the next thought. "She's just a child."
"That fact hasn't eluded me," he said dryly as he refilled his wineglass. "Who is 'us'?"
"What?"
"You said 'the girl means everything to us.' Who?"
"Me . . ." Cassandra hesitated, took a deep breath. "And the Priest."
Daemon's expression was a mixture of relief and pain. He licked his lips. "Does he ... Does he think I mean her harm?" He shook his head. "No matter. I've wondered the same about him."
Cassandra gasped, incensed. "How could—" She stopped herself. If they had presumed that about him, why would he not presume the same about them? She sat at the kitchen table. He hesitated and then sat across from her. "Listen to me," she said earnestly. "I can understand why you feel bitter toward him, but you don't feel half as bitter as he does. He never wanted to walk away from you, but he had no other choice. No matter what you think of him because of the way you've had to live, one thing is true: he adores her. With every breath, with every drop of his blood, he adores her."
Daemon toyed with the wineglass. "Isn't he a little old for her?"
"I'd say he was experienced," Cassandra replied tartly.
"She'll be a powerful Queen and should have an older, experienced Steward."
Daemon glanced at her, amused. "Steward?"
"Of course." She studied him. "Do you have ambitions to wear the Steward's ring?"
Daemon shook his head. His lips twitched. "No, I don't have any ambitions to wear the Steward's ring."
"Well, then." Cassandra's eyes widened. Now that the chill was gone, now that he was a little more relaxed . . . "You really are your father's son," she said dryly and was startled by his immediate, warm laughter. Her eyes narrowed. "You thought—that's wicked!"
"Is it?" His golden eyes caressed her with disturbing warmth. "Perhaps it is."
Cassandra smiled. When the anger and cold were gone, he really was a delightful man. "What does she think of you?"
"How in the name of Hell should I know?" he growled. His eyes narrowed as she laughed at him.
"Does she try your patience to the breaking point? Exasperate you until you want to scream? Make you feel as if you can't tell from one step to the next if you're going to touch solid ground or fall into a bottomless pit?"
He looked at her with interest. "Do you feel that way?"
"Oh, no," Cassandra said lightly. "But then, I'm not male."
Daemon growled.
"That's a familiar sound." It was fun teasing him because, despite his strength, he didn't frighten her the way Saetan did. "You and the Priest might have more in common than you think where she's concerned."
He laughed, and she knew it was the idea of Saetan being as bewildered as he that amused him, consoled him, linked him to them.
Daemon finished his wine and stood up. "I'm .. . glad ... to have met you, Cassandra. I hope it won't be the last time."
She linked her arm through his and walked with him to the outer door of the Sanctuary. "You're welcome anytime, Prince."
Daemon raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
She watched him until he was out of sight before returning to the kitchen and washing the glasses.
Now there was just the delicate little matter of explaining this meeting to his father.
5 / Terreille
There are some things the body never forgets, Saetan thought wryly as Cassandra snuggled closer to him, her hand tracing anxious little circles up and down his chest. Before tonight he'd politely refused to stay with her, wary that she might want more from him than he was willing— or able—to give. But she, too, was a Guardian, and that kind of love was no longer part of her life. There were, after all, some penalties to the half-life. Still, it pleased him to feel skin against skin, to caress the curves of a feminine body. If only she'd get to the point and stop making those damn little circles, because he remembered only too well
what they meant.
He captured her hand and held it against his chest. "So?" As he turned his head and kissed her hair, he felt her frown. He pressed his lips together, annoyed. Had she forgotten how easy it was for him to read a woman's body, to pick up her subtlest moods? Was she going to deny what had screamed at him the moment he stepped into the kitchen?
"So?" She lightly, teasingly, kissed his chest.
Saetan took a deep breath. His patience frayed. "So when are you going to get around to telling me what happened this afternoon?"
She tensed. "What happened this afternoon?"
He clenched his teeth. "The walls remember, Cassandra. I'm a Black Widow, too. Do you want me to pull it out of the walls and replay it, or are you going to tell me yourself?"
"There's really not much—"
"Not much!" Saetan swore as he rolled away from her and leaned against the headboard. "Have the centuries addled your mind, woman?"
"Don't . . ."
Saetan looked into her eyes. "I frighten you," he said bitterly. "I've never harmed you, never touched you in anger, seldom even raised my voice at you. I loved you, served you well, and used my strength to keep a vow to you through all those desolate years. And I frighten you. Since the day I returned with the Black, I've frightened you." He leaned his head back and stared at the ceiling. "You're frightened of me, and yet you have the audacity to provoke my son into a murderous rage and try to dismiss it as if nothing happened. What I don't understand is why this place is standing at all, why I'm not trying to locate your remains, or why he wasn't standing on the threshold waiting for me. Did you tell him about me? Was I your trick card to make him hesitate long enough for you to try to smooth it over?"
"It wasn't like that!" Cassandra pulled the sheet around her.
"Then what was it like?" His voice sounded flat with the effort to keep his temper in check.
"He came here because he thought I—we—wanted to harm Jaenelle."
Saetan shook his head. "You, perhaps. Not me. He already knew about me." He looked away. He didn't want to see her confusion, didn't want to consider what might happen if that tenuous link between Daemon and himself shattered.
Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 01 - Daughter of the Blood Page 29