Daughter of the Blood bj-1

by Anne Bishop

  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 you 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 ange
r 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.

  "Saetan . . . listen to me." Cassandra reached out to him.

  He hesitated a moment before holding out his arm and letting her settle on his shoulder. He listened, without interrupting, while she told him about her meeting with Daemon, suspecting that she had blunted far too many edges, had given him the bone without any of the meat.

  "You were very lucky," he said when she finally stopped talking.

  "Well, I realize he wears the Black."

  Saetan snorted and shook his head. "There is a range of strength within every Jewel. You know that as well as I."

  "He's not really trained."

  "Don't mistake ability for polish. He may not do everything he wants to with finesse, but that doesn't mean he can't do it."

  She fidgeted, annoyed because he wasn't soothed by her rendition of the meeting. But there was still all that meat he hadn't gotten.

  "You sound as if you're afraid of him," she said crossly.

  "I am."

  She gasped.

  Saetan suddenly felt weary. Weary of Cassandra, weary of Hekatah, weary of all the witches he'd known who, no matter what they did or didn't feel for him as a man, all looked at his Jewels and saw the potential to achieve their own ends. Only the one with sapphire eyes saw him as Saetan. Just Saetan.

  "Why?" Cassandra asked, watching his face intently.

  Saetan closed his eyes. So weary. And there was another man, a far more desperate man, who had seen only seventeen centuries and was just as weary. "Because he's stronger than me, Cassandra. And not just because he's living. He's stronger than I was in my prime, and he's . . . more ruthless."

  Cassandra bit her lip. "He knows about Jaenelle. I had the impression he knows where to find her."

  Saetan let out a sharp laugh. "Oh, I imagine he does. It's probably not that far a walk from his room to hers."

  "What?"

  "He's servi
ng her family, Cassandra. He's living in the same house." He leaned toward her, taking her chin between his fingers. "Now do you begin to understand? He knows about me because Jaenelle told him, completely ignorant, I'm sure, that it would make him climb the walls. And I know about him because he sent a message to me, through Jaenelle. A polite message, basically warning me off his territory."

  "He doesn't want to be Steward of the court."

  Saetan laughed, genuinely amused. "No, I wouldn't think he would. He's in his prime, virile, living, and well trained in seduction. That twelve-year-old body must be driving him out of his skin."

  Cassandra hesitated. "He thought you wanted to be her Consort."

  Saetan gave her a sidelong look. "What did you tell him?"

  "That she needed an older, experienced Steward."

  "Very kind of you."

  Cassandra sighed. "You're still angry about my talking to him."

  "No, I'm not. I just wish . . ." That I could have seen him, talked to him, felt the strength of his grip, heard the sound of his voice. That we could have judged each other honestly. We're forced to trust each other because Jaenelle is asking us to, because she trusts.

  He caressed Cassandra's hair. "Promise me you'll be careful. Hekatah's searching for Jaenelle. If Dorothea is supporting the effort, he'll know best where to look for danger from that quarter. Whether or not he'll ask us for help will depend on whether or not he trusts us. I want that trust, Cassandra, and not just for Jaenelle's sake. You owe me that much."

  CHAPTER TEN

  1—Terreille

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

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