Bishop, Anne - Dark Jewels 01 - Daughter of the Blood

by Daughter of the Blood [lit]

  It was the children's party, the girls' party. And the uncles were there in force, almost drooling as they eyed the prospects.

  Even worse, Sadi was present, looking bored as usual, but the sleepy look in his eyes and the lazy way he moved around the room made her uneasy. As she sipped sparkling wine and stroked her escort's arm in a way that made his ears burn, she watched Sadi, finally realizing that he, too, was keeping an unobtrusive, continuous watch over someone. Her eyes slid around the room, catching and holding men's glances for an uncomfortable heartbeat before passing by them, until they came back to the group of girls clustered in a corner, whispering and giggling.

  Except one.

  For a moment, Surreal was caught by those wary sapphire eyes. When she was allowed to look away, she found Sadi studying her.

  "I need some air," Surreal said to her young Warlord, slipping away from him to find a terrace, an open window, anything.

  The terrace was deserted. Surreal called in a heavy shawl and wrapped it around her shoulders. It was foolish to stand out here, but the lust stench in the crowded rooms was unbearable.

  "Surreal."

  Surreal tensed. She hadn't heard him come out, hadn't heard even the softest scrape of shoe on stone. She stared at the unlit garden, seeing nothing, waiting.

  "Cigarette?" Daemon said, holding his gold case out to her.

  Surreal took one and waited for him to create the little tongue of witchfire to light it. They smoked in silence for a while.

  "Your escort doesn't quite know what to do with himself this evening," Daemon said with a touch of dry amusement. "He's an ass." Surreal flicked the cigarette into the garden. "Besides, if I'd known what kind of party this was going to be, I wouldn't have come." "And what kind is that?"

  Surreal let out an unladylike snort. "With Briarwood's esteemed here? What kind of party do you think it's going to be?"

  The night was still and cold. Now it was filled with something more still—and colder.

  "What do you know about Briarwood, Surreal?" Daemon crooned.

  Surreal flinched when he stepped toward her. "Nothing more than everyone who works in a Red Moon house knows," she said defensively. "And what is that?"

  "Why?" she said sharply, wishing for her knife and not daring to call it in. "Have you become an uncle, Sadi?"

  Daemon's voice was too soft, too sleepy. '-'And what is an uncle?"

  She'd been looking into his eyes, frozen by what she saw in them, and didn't feel his hand close around her wrist until it was too late. Anger. Anger was the only defense. "An uncle is a man who likes to play with little girls," she said with sweet venom.

  Daemon's expression didn't change. "What does that have to do with Briarwood?"

  "Kartane helped build the place," she snapped. "Does that answer your question?" She jerked her wrist out of his hand, half surprised that he didn't break it instead of letting go. "No respectable Red Moon house would sell a girl that young or allow her to be ..." She rubbed her wrist. "The Chaillot whores call it the breaking ground. The 'emotionally unstable' girls from good families are eventually sent home, married off. The other ones . . . The lower-class Red Moon houses are filled with girls who got too old to be amusing."

  "It explains so much," Daemon whispered, shaking. "It explains so very much."

  Surreal put a tentative hand on his arm. "Sadi?" He pulled her into his arms. She struggled, frightened to be this close to him with no way to gauge what he might do. His arms tightened around her. "Surreal," he whispered in her ear. "Let me hold you. Please. Just for a moment." Surreal forced herself to relax. Once she did, his hold loosened a little, making it possible to breathe. Resting her head on his shoulder, she tried to think. Why was he so upset about Briarwood? It wasn't the first place Kartane had helped build for that purpose. Did he know someone who was in Briarwood? Or had been in ...

  "No." Surreal shook her head fiercely, wanting to deny what she'd seen but hadn't understood in those wary sapphire eyes. "No." She pushed far enough away from Daemon to wrap her hands in his jacket's lapels. "Not that one." She continued to shake her head. "Not her."

  "In and out since she was five," Daemon said in a trembling voice.

  "No," Surreal wailed, hiding her face against his chest, grateful for his arms around her. Suddenly she pushed away from him, brushing the tears off her cheeks, her eyes gold-green chips of stone. "You have to get her out of here. You have to keep her away from them."

  "I know," Daemon said, straightening his jacket. "I know. Come on, I'll take you back in."

  "Don't you realize what they'll do to her? What—" Surreal ran her hands through her hair, never noticing the combs that fell and broke on the stone terrace. "They can't have taken her all the way yet. She doesn't act like she's been broken yet." She grabbed Daemon's arms and tried to shake him. It was like trying to shake the building. "You've got to get her away from here. She's special, Sadi. She's—"

  "Shh," Daemon said, brushing his fingers over her lips. His hands ran through her hair, coaxing it back into some semblance of the style she was wearing. "Calm yourself, Surreal." "How—" "Calm yourself." She hadn't known him this long without knowing an order when she heard it. Calm. Yes. Outsiders weren't supposed to know about the extra little party that was going to take place.

  Daemon led her back to the main hall, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. "Tell your escort you have a headache. Too much heat, too much sparkling wine. Whatever."

  "That won't be hard." From the doorway, Surreal scanned the crowd in the ballroom, searching for the young Warlord. Instead she saw a Hayllian Warlord standing with a group of men, quietly discussing something while they watched some of the girls having their first dance with selected partners. "Who's that?" she asked, tilting her chin in the Hayllian's direction. Daemon's hand tightened on her shoulder.

  "That, my dear Surreal, is Kartane SaDiablo."

  Her knife was in her hand before he'd finished speaking. Kartane! Finally to see Kartane.

  Surreal tried to step forward, intending to slip through the crowd until she was close enough to be sure of the kill, but she couldn't shake off Daemon's vice grip.

  "No, Surreal," Daemon said quietly.

  "He owes me for Titian," she hissed through clenched teeth.

  "Not here. Not in Beldon Mor."

  "He owes me, Sadi."

  The pain in her shoulder got worse.

  "If you kill him now, Dorothea will start asking questions. I don't want anyone asking any more questions. Do you understand?"

  Surreal vanished the knife. It didn't please her, but she understood. However, that didn't mean she couldn't study her quarry.

  "Go now, Surreal."

  "I think I'll—"

  "Go." Once again, it was an order.

  Surreal left, aware that Daemon watched her. She didn't see her Warlord escort. No matter. He was probably too drunk by now to know what he fell into bed with.

  Chaillot .had too many secrets, Daemon thought as he watched the party. And this particular secret was a twisted, vicious one.

  Why hadn't Saetan done something about Briarwood? Why had he left Jaenelle in such danger?

  Daemon froze. Jaenelle's words, the first time he'd mentioned the Priest, spun through his mind. He mustn't come here. He mustn't find out about. . .

  Saetan didn't know about Briarwood.

  Which also explained why Cassandra had never come to Beldon Mor. Jaenelle had done something to keep them out, to keep Saetan from learning about Briarwood.

  Why? Why? Did she think Saetan would shun her for that? Or did she fear his vengeance on her family if he found out they had knowingly put a child in such a place?

  No. Alexandra couldn't know about Briarwood. Nor Philip or Leland. Robert?

  Rose. Lollipop. Uncle Bobby.

  Yes, Robert Benedict knew about Briarwood and, knowing, put his daughter into that place.

  He had to talk to Alexandra. If she knew the truth about Jaenelle, and Briarwood, s
he would help protect her granddaughter. She was struggling to keep her people out of Hayll's snare. She would understand and value a Queen who could stand against Dorothea.

  Daemon saw Alexandra near a curtained archway, talking with several women. He slipped past them, doubled back and was just about to step out from behind the curtain when he heard Alexandra say, "Witch is only a symbol of the Blood, an ideal we celebrate, a myth."

  "But Witch did rule the Realms once, a long time ago," said another voice, one Daemon didn't recognize. "I remember hearing stories about Cassandra, who was a Black-Jeweled Queen. They called her Witch."

  "I remember hearing stories, too," Alexandra said. "But that's all they are: stories that have been dimmed by time and softened by romantic notions about a woman who probably didn't live at all. But if she did, do you really believe that, with that much power, she was a generous and benevolent Queen? Not likely. She would have been more of a monster than Dorothea SaDiablo."

  "Brrr," said another woman as she indulged in a theatrical shudder.

  "But what if Witch really did appear?" the first woman persisted.

  Alexandra's next words cut him. Cut him again and again and again. "Then I would hope, for all our sakes, that someone would have the courage to strangle it in the cradle."

  Daemon went back to the terrace, grateful for the cold air he gulped to keep down the scream of rage and despair. Why had he tried to fool himself into thinking she would help?

  Because there was no one else. He was Ringed and could be incapacitated. It would take time, but not that long. Even if he did slip the Ring he would be declared rogue, and there would be no place fit for a young girl to live where they'd be safe. The only way was to get Jaenelle to Saetan and then convince her not to come back.

  First he had to get her away from here.

  His chance came when Jaenelle left the ballroom and headed down the hall toward a bathroom. Wrapping himself in a sight shield, he followed close behind her, waiting impatiently outside the door while she took care of her private needs. When she opened the door to leave, he pushed her back inside, locked the door, and dropped the shield.

  Jaenelle lifted one eyebrow, striving for amusement.

  Daemon knelt in front of her, holding her hands. "Listen to me, Jaenelle. You're in danger here, great danger."

  "I've always been in danger here, Daemon," Jaenelle said quietly in her Witch voice.

  "More so now. You don't understand what's going to happen here."

  "Don't I?" Her voice was whispery thunder.

  "Jaenelle . . ." Daemon closed his eyes and leaned forward until his head rested against her small, too thin, fragile chest. He felt her heart beating. It made him desperate. He would do anything now to keep that heart beating. "Jaenelle, please. The Priest . . . The Priest would let you stay with him, wouldn't he? I mean, you wouldn't have to live in the Dark Realm. He'd find another place, like he found for Tersa, wouldn't he? Jaenelle . . . sweetheart . . . you can't stay here anymore."

  "I have to, Daemon," Jaenelle said gently. Her fingers stroked his head, tangling in his hair.

  "Why?" Daemon cried. He raised his head, his eyes pleading. "I know you care for your family—"

  "Family?" Jaenelle let out a small, bitter laugh. "My family lives in Hell, Prince."

  "Then why won't you go? If you don't think the Priest will take you, at least go to Cassandra. A Sanctuary offers some protection."

  "No."

  "Why?"

  Jaenelle backed away from him, troubled. "Saetan asked me to live with him, and I promised him I would, but I can't yet."

  Daemon leaned back on his heels. This was brutal, and it was blackmail, but she wasn't leaving him any choice. "I know about Briarwood."

  Jaenelle shuddered. "Then you know why I can't go yet."

  Daemon grabbed her with bruising force and shook her. "No, I don't know why. If I tell him—"

  Jaenelle looked at him, her eyes huge and horrified. "Please don't tell him, Daemon," she whispered. "Please."

  "Why?" he snapped. "He won't turn on you because of what's been done. Do you really think he'll stop caring for you if he finds out?"

  "He might."

  Daemon leaned back, stunned. Since it made no difference to him, except that it made him want to protect her more, he'd assumed Saetan would feel the same. Would it make a difference?

  "Daemon," Jaenelle pleaded, "if he finds out I've been . . . sick ... if he thinks I'm not good enough to teach the Craft to ..."

  "What do you mean, 'sick'?" But he knew. A hospital for "emotionally disturbed" children. A child who told stories about unicorns and dragons, who visited friends no one else saw because, wherever they existed, it wasn't in Terreille. A child whose sense of reality had been twisted in Briarwood for so many years she didn't know what to believe or whom she could trust.

  Daemon held her close, stroking her hair. He felt her tears on his neck and his heart bled. She was only twelve. For all her Craft, for all her magic, for all her strength, she was still only twelve. She believed all the lies they'd told her. Even though she struggled against them, even though she tried to doubt the words they'd pounded into her for so many years, she believed their lies. And because she believed, she was more afraid of losing her mentor and friend than she was of losing her life.

  He kissed her cheek. "If I promise not to tell, will you promise to go—and not come back?"

  "I can't," Jaenelle whispered.

  "Why?" Daemon said angrily. He was losing patience. They were losing precious time.

  Jaenelle leaned back and looked at him with her ancient, haunted eyes. "Wilhelmina," she said in a flat voice. "Wilhelmina's strong, Daemon, stronger than she knows, strong enough to wear the Sapphire if she isn't broken. I have to help her until she makes the Offering. Then she'll be stronger than most of the males here, and they won't be able to break her. Then I'll go live with the Priest."

  Daemon looked away. It would be at least four years before Wilhelmina could make the Offering. Jaenelle, if she stayed in Beldon Mor, would be long dead by then.

  A sharp rap on the door startled them. A woman called out, "You all right in there, missy? Hurry up, now. The girls are selecting partners for the dance."

  Daemon slowly got to his feet. He felt old, beaten. But if he could keep her safe until tomorrow, Saetan might have more persuasive weapons at his disposal. Wrapping the sight shield around himself, he opened the door and slipped out behind Jaenelle. The woman, impatiently waiting outside, took a firm hold of Jaenelle's arm and steered her back into the ballroom.

  Daemon slipped along the edge of the room silently, invisibly. It was such a small thing to stop a heart, to reach in and nick an artery. Was there any man here who wasn't expendable, including himself? No, not when the ice whispered in his veins, not when the double-edged sword was unsheathed. He slipped up behind his cousin and heard Kartane say, "That one? She's a whey-faced little bitch. The sister's prettier."

  Daemon smiled. Still wrapped in the sight shield, his right hand reached out toward Kartane's shoulder. For a moment, before his hand tightened in a malevolent grip, he felt Kartane lean against him, enjoying the sensuous, shivery caress of the long nails. Daemon enjoyed feeling the sensuous shiver change to shivery fear as his nails pierced Kartane's jacket and shirt.

  "Cousin," Daemon whispered in his ear. "Come out to the terrace with me, cousin."

  "Get away from me," Kartane growled out of the corner of his mouth as he tried to shrug off Daemon's hand. "I've business here."

  Daemon continued to smile. Foolish of the boy to try to bluff when he could smell the fear. "You've business with me first." He pivoted slowly, pulling Kartane with him.

  "Bastard," Kartane said softly, walking toward the terrace to keep from being dragged there.

  "By birth and by temperament," Daemon agreed with amiable coldness.

  When they were out on the terrace, Daemon dropped the sight shield. Compared to the fiery cold he felt inside himself, the
air seemed balmy. While he waited for Kartane to stop looking at the garden and face him, he absently brushed the branches of a small potted bush. He smiled as ice instantly coated them. He kept stroking the bush until the whole thing was coated. Then, with a shrug, he took his gold case from his pocket, lit a cigarette, and waited. He was between Kartane and the door. His cousin wasn't going to leave before he was ready to let him.

  Shivering violently, Kartane turned.

  "The whey-faced little bitch," Daemon crooned while the cigarette smoke ringed his head.

  "What about her?" Kartane asked nervously.

  "Stay away from her."

  "Why?" Kartane said sneeringly. "Do you want her?"

  "Yes."

  Daemon watched Kartane stagger back and grip the terrace railing for support. Finally, the truth. He wanted her. Already, in ways Kartane and his kind would never understand, he was her lover.

  "There are prettier ones if you want a taste," Kartane coaxed.

  "Flesh is irrelevant," Daemon replied. "My hunger goes deeper." He pitched the cigarette, watching it sail past Kartane's cheek before falling into the garden. "But, cousin, if you should ever mention my ... lapse ... or my choice ..."

  The unspoken threat hung in the air.

  "You'd kill me?" Kartane laughed in disbelief. "Kill me? Dorothea's son?"

  Daemon smiled. "Killing your body is the least of what I'd do to you.. Remember Cornelia? When the time came, she was actually grateful for what I did to the flesh." It took only a moment for Daemon to slip beneath Kartane's inner barriers and, with the delicacy of a snowflake, drop into his mind the memory of what Cornelia's room had looked like just before Daemon left. He waited patiently for Kartane to finish heaving. "Now—"

  A shriek of rage and the sound of breaking glass in one of the rooms above the ballroom cut him off.

  Daemon swayed. Why was the ground—not the ground—why was he spinning this way, spiraling toward something that made him shiver?

  Spiraling.