Daughter of the Blood bj-1

by Anne Bishop

  He felt brittle, fragile.

  A finger tapped his chest.

  A thin skin of black mist coated the chalice, inside and out, forming a delicate shield around it.

  The finger tapped again. Harder.

  He ignored it.

  The next tap had an unsheathed nail at the end of it.

  Cursing, he shot up onto his elbows. He forgot what he'd intended to say because she was straddling his thighs and he could have sworn he saw little flashes of lightning deep in her sapphire eyes.

  "Snarly male," she said, tapping his chest again. "The chalice is back together, but it's very fragile. It will be strong again if you keep it protected long enough for it to mend. You must take your body to a safe place until the chalice heals."

  "I'm not leaving without you."

  She shook her head. "The misty place is too dark, too deep for you. You can't stay here."

  Daemon bared his teeth. "I'm not leaving without you."

  "Stubborn snarly male!"

  "I can be as stubborn and as snarly as you."

  She stuck her tongue out at him.

  He responded in kind.

  She blinked, huffed, and then began to laugh.

  That silvery, velvet-coated laugh made his heart ache and tremble.

  Before, he'd seen Witch beneath the child Jaenelle. Now he saw Jaenelle beneath Witch. Now he saw the difference—and no difference.

  She looked at him, her eyes full of gentle sadness. "You have to go back, Daemon."

  "So do you," he said quietly.

  She shook her head. "The body's dying."

  "You could heal it."

  She shook her head more violently. "Let it die. Let them have the body. I don't want the body. This is my place now. I can see them all when I stand in this place. All the dreams."

  "What dreams?"

  "The dreams in the Light. The dreams in the Darkness and the Shadow. All the dreams." She hesitated, looked confused. "You're one of the dreams in the Light. A good dream."

  Daemon swallowed hard. Was that how she saw them? As dreams? She was the living myth, dreams made flesh.

  Made flesh.

  "I'm not a dream, Lady. I'm real."

  Her eyes flashed. "What is real?" she demanded. "I see beautiful things, I hear them, I touch them with the body's hand, and they say bad girl to make up stories, those things are not real. I see bad things, cruel things, a twisted darkness that taints the land, a darkness that isn't the Darkness, and they say bad girl to make up stories, bad girl to tell lies. The uncles say no one will believe a sick-mind girl and they laugh and hurt the body so I go away to the misty place to see the gentle ones, the beautiful ones and leave them ice that hurts them when they touch it." She hugged herself and rocked back and forth. "They don't want me. They don't want me. They don't love me. "

  Daemon wrapped his arms around her and held her close, rocking with her as words kept tumbling out. He listened to the loneliness and confusion. He listened to the horrors of Briarwood. He listened to bits of stories about friends who seemed real but weren't real. He listened and understood what she didn't, what she couldn't.

  If she didn't repair her shattered mind, if she didn't link with the body again, if she didn't re-form the four-sided triangle, she would be trapped here, becoming lost and entangled in the shards of herself until she could never find a way to reach what she loved most.

  "No," he said gently when her words finally stopped, "they don't want you. They don't love you, can't love you. But I do love you. The Priest loves you. The beautiful ones, the gentle ones— theylove you. We've waited so long for you to come. We need you with us. We need you to walk among us."

  "I don't want the body," she whimpered. "It hurts."

  "Not always, sweetheart. Not always. Without the body, how will you hear a bird's song? How will you feel a warm summer rain on your skin? How will you taste nut-cakes? How will you walk on a beach at sunset and feel the sand and surf under your . . . hooves?"

  He felt her mood lighten before he heard the sniffled giggle. As she raised her head to look at him, her thighs shifted where they straddled him.

  A fire sparked in his loins and he stirred.

  She leaned back and watched him swell and rise.

  He saw innocence in her face, a kitten's curiosity. He saw a female shape that, if not fully mature, was also not a child.

  He clenched his teeth and swore silently when she began stroking him lightly.

  Stroke. Observe the reaction as if she'd never seen a man become aroused. Stroke. Observe.

  He wanted to push her away. He wanted to pull her down on top of him. It was killing him. It was wonderful. As he reached for her hand to stop her, she said in a quiet, wondering voice, "Your maleness has no spines."

  Rage froze him. The shards of the chalice rattled as he leashed the fury that had no outlet here. For a moment he tried very, very hard to believe she was comparing him to another species of male, but he knew too much about the twisted males who enjoyed breaking a young, strong witch on her Virgin Night.

  Mother Night! No wonder she didn't want to go back. She studied him, puzzled. "Does the body's maleness have spines?"

  Daemon swallowed the rage. The Sadist transformed it into deadly silk. "No," he crooned. "My maleness has no spines."

  "Soft," she said as she stroked and explored. His hands whispered over her thighs, over her hips. "It could give you pleasure," he crooned softly.

  "Pleasure?" Her eyes lit up with curiosity and anticipation.

  The childlike trust stabbed him in the heart. She must have sensed some change in him. Before he could stop her, she exploded, kicking his thigh as she leaped away from him. Out of reach, she hugged herself and glared at him.

  "You want to mate with the body. Like the others. You want me to make her well so you can put your maleness inside her. "

  Rage washed through him. "Who is her? "he asked too softly.

  "Jaenelle."

  "You're Jaenelle."

  "I AM WITCH!"

  He trembled with the effort not to attack her. "Jaenelle is Witch and Witch is Jaenelle."

  "They never want me." She thumped her chest with her fist. "Not me. They don't want me inside the body. They want to mate with Jaenelle, not Witch."

  He felt her fragment more and more.

  "This is Witch," she screamed at him. "This is who lived inside the body. Do you want to mate with Witch?"

  Anger made him lash out. "No, I don't want to mate with you. I want to make love to you."

  Whatever she was about to say went unsaid. She stared at him as if he were something unknown. She took a hesitant step toward him.

  She'll take the bait,the Sadist whispered inside him. She'll take the bait and step into the pretty trap.

  Another step.

  Deadly, deadly silk.

  Another.

  A sweet trap spun from love and lies . . . and truth.

  "I've waited seven hundred years for you," he crooned. "For you. " His lips curved in a seducer's smile. "I was born to be your lover."

  "Lover?"

  Almost within reach.

  Without his body, the seduction tendrils weren't as potent, but he saw the change in her eyes when they reached her.

  Still, she hovered out of reach. "Then why do you want the body?"

  "Because that body can sheathe me so that I can give you pleasure." He watched her think about this. "Do you like my body?"

  "It's beautiful," she said reluctantly, and then added hurriedly, "but you look the same here. And Witch can sheathe your maleness."

  The Sadist held out his hand. "Why don't we find out?"

  She took his hand and gracefully settled over him, straddling his thighs. Then she looked at him expectantly.

  He smiled at her while his hands explored her, soothing and arousing. When his fingers tickled the underside of her fawn tail, she squeaked and jumped. He resettled her tighter against him, wrapped one arm around her hips to keep her still while h
is other hand slid through the gold mane and cupped her head. Then he kissed her. A soft kiss. A melting kiss. She sighed when he caressed her breasts. She trembled when he licked the tiny spiral horn. When he was sure she'd taken the bait, he whispered, "Sweetheart, you're right. This place is too dark for me. The chalice is too fragile and I . . . I hurt." She looked at him regretfully but nodded.

  "Wait," he said when she tried to move away. "Can you come up with me? Up to my inner web?" He licked her ear. His voice became a throbbing purr. "We'd still be safe there."

  He leashed the urgency he felt and waited for her answer. There was no way to tell how much time had passed at the Altar, no way to know if their bodies were still there, no way to know if hers still lived, no way to know if those monsters from Briarwood had reached the Sanctuary. No way to know what his body was doing.

  He pushed the thought away. He didn't have a link now; the Priest did. Whatever he was doing, it was Saetan's problem.

  The rushing ascent caught him by surprise. He grabbed her at the same moment she wrapped her legs around him.

  "Lover," she said, smiling at him. Then she giggled.

  He wondered if, with a lifetime of wandering in that strange blend of innocence and formidable knowledge, she knew what the word meant.

  Doesn't matter, the Sadist whispered. She took the bait.

  They rose until they were high in the Black, comfortably above his inner web.

  "Better?" she asked shyly.

  "Much better," he answered, fitting his mouth to hers.

  He kissed her until she relaxed, and then he sighed again.

  Hurry, the Sadist whispered.

  He leaned his forehead against hers and yelped when the tiny spiral horn jabbed him.

  She giggled and kissed his forehead. "Kisses make it better?"

  Revulsion swamped him for a moment. That was a child's voice. A young child's voice.

  He looked over her shoulder, trying to reconcile the female shape wrapped around him with that voice, and saw fragments of shattered crystal floating through the Black.

  Pieces of her. Pieces and pieces of her. Part of her was still intact. Had to be. The part that held the knowledge of the Craft. How could she have put him together otherwise? But if she kept slipping in and out of those fragments . . .

  Like Tersa. Worse than Tersa.

  "Daemon?"

  The midnight voice, with a deadly edge to it.

  Remember this side of her, the Sadist warned. Ignore the rest.

  Daemon smiled at her. "Lover," he said, nipping her lower lip. Then he used every trick he'd ever learned to sweeten the bait.

  But he wouldn't let her raise her hips to sheathe him.

  "Still too dark," he gasped when she began to whimper and snarl. "Let's go to the Red. It's my Birthright."

  She tried to shake off the seduction tendrils he'd woven around her, but he'd spun his trap well.

  "We can have a bed there," he coaxed.

  She shuddered. Whimpered. There was no pleasure in the sound.

  An image appeared. A bed just big enough for the game. A bed with straps attached to the ends to tie down wrists and ankles.

  He dismissed the image and replaced it with his own. A large room with deep, soft carpets. A huge bed, its canopy made of gauze and velvet. Silk sheets and downy covers. Mounds of pillows. The only light came from a slow-burning fire and dozens of scented candles.

  Blinded by romance, she sighed and melted against him.

  He held the image, teasing, tantalizing as they rose to the Red.

  As they settled among the silk and pillows, he tried to reach for some link—his body, the Priest, anything—and choked on frustration. So close. So close and there was nothing for him to tap into to finish it—except the power Jaenelle had shaped around his chalice to hold the pieces together.

  Caressing and soothing, loving and lying, he kept her focused on the pleasure while he cautiously sipped the power forming the skin inside the chalice. The skin shrank. The top fragments wobbled but held. Enough.

  He reached for Saetan. Found exhaustion and a killing fury.

  He struck first. "Hush, Priest." He waited a moment, tapped a little more of the power holding the chalice together. "Use whatever you can now to form a tether. And prepare for a fight. I'm bringing her back."

  He reached for his body next. It was still stretched out on the Altar, next to Jaenelle. He strengthened the connection enough so that his body imitated his movements.

  Smiling, Daemon slowly rolled on top of her. Gently pinned her hands on either side of her head.

  He kissed her, nuzzled her as they rose and rose and rose.

  She rubbed against him. "Lover," she whimpered.

  "Soon," he lied. "Soon."

  Up and up.

  He was moments away from slipping back into his body when her eyes widened and she felt the trap spring around her.

  "No!" she screamed.

  Baring his teeth, he slammed both of them back into their bodies.

  Her screams filled the Altar room. Blood gushed between her legs.

  "Heal the body, Jaenelle!" Daemon shouted, fighting to keep her connected to her body while she tried to throw him off. "Heal it!"

  Her fear pounded against his mind.

  "You lied to me. You LIED!"

  "I would have said anything, done anything to get you back," he roared, his nails digging in to hold her. "Heal it!"

  "Letmego letmego letmego."

  Bodies fought. Selves fought. As they tangled furiously, he felt Saetan slip the tether around her leg.

  One flick of the power within her would tear him apart, would set her free. Instead she begged, pleaded.

  "Daemon, please. You're my friend. Please. "

  It hurt to hear her beg.

  "Witch-child." Saetan's voice, cracked and trembling.

  Jaenelle stopped fighting. "Saetan?"

  "We don't want to lose you, witch-child."

  "You won't lose me. I can see you all in the misty place."

  Saetan's words came slowly, as if each one pained him. "No, Jaenelle. You won't see us in the misty place. If you don't heal your body, Daemon and I will be destroyed."

  Daemon's breath hissed through his teeth. The Sadist wasn't the only one who could spin a deadly trap.

  Her wail filled their minds, filled his ears as the child body echoed the sound.

  He felt a tidal wave of dark power rush up out of the abyss, felt it fill the young body he held in his arms, felt it mend torn flesh.

  Her body relaxed, went limp.

  Daemon raised a shaking hand to stroke her golden hair.

  "I'm sick," Jaenelle said, her voice muffled against his chest.

  "No, sweetheart," he corrected gently. "You're hurt. That's different. But we'll get you to a safe place and—"

  The Sanctuary shook as someone unleashed a dark Jewel.

  An angry male voice changed to a terrified shriek.

  Jaenelle screamed.

  Daemon dove into the abyss a second before she did, catching her at the Red as she tried to flee the body.

  Sucking the power from the chalice, he held onto her.

  Pieces wobbled.

  "No, Daemon," Jaenelle shrieked. "You can't. You can't. "Suddenly she collapsed against his chest. "I healed the body. It's still hurt, but it will mend. Let me go. Please, let me go. You can have the body. You can use the body."

  Daemon pressed her back against his chest. He rested his cheek against her gold mane. "No, sweetheart. No one's going to use your body but you." He closed his eyes and held her tight. "Listen, my Lady Witch. I lied to you, and I'm sorry. So very sorry. But I lied because I love you. I hope you'll understand that one day."

  She sagged against him, saying nothing.

  "Listen to me," he said softly. "We're going to take your body away from here. We'll keep it safe. Is there some landmark in the misty place that you can always find?"

  She nodded wearily.

  "There's a
tether around your leg. Take it off and tie it around that landmark. That way, when you're ready, it'll show you the way back." It took him a moment to say the rest. "Please, Jaenelle, please repair the chalice. Find the shards and put it back together. Return to the body when the Priest tells you it's safe. Grow up and have a rich life. We need you, Lady. Come back and walk among those who love you, those who have longed for you." He let her go.

  She hesitated a moment before leaping away from him. When there was enough distance between them, she turned around.

  Daemon swallowed hard. "Try to remember that I love you. And if you can, please forgive me."

  He felt her lightly touch his mind, felt her dark power reform the thin skin that held him together. She closed her sapphire eyes. He watched her shape change.

  When she opened her eyes, Jaenelle stood before him, not quite a woman but no longer a child. "Daemon," she said, her voice a soft, sighing caress. Then she dove into the abyss, and his heart shattered. He made the ascent for the last time and tumbled into his body.

  He heard angry male voices coming from the outer rooms. He heard shrieks of pain. Heard stone exploding. Heard the sizzle of power meeting power.

  He didn't move. Didn't try. He laid his head on Jaenelle's chest and wept silently, bitterly.

  "Daemon." Saetan brushed against his mind and pulled back. "Daemon, what have you done?"

  "I let her go," Daemon cried. "I told her you'd tell her when it was safe to come back. I told her about the tether. I let her go, Priest. Sweet Darkness, I let her go."

  "What have you done to yourself?"

  "I shattered the chalice. I lied to her. I seduced her into trusting me and I lied to her. "

  A brief touch, gentle and hesitant. "She'll understand, namesake. In time, she'll understand." Saetan faded, came back. "I can't hold the link anymore. Cassandra will open the Gate and take you—" Saetan was gone.

  Daemon wiped his face with his sleeve. A little longer. He had to hold on a little longer. But he felt so empty, so terribly alone.

  The sounds of fighting got closer. Closer.

  Cassandra burst into the room. "There's no time left."

  Daemon slid from the Altar and collapsed.

  Ignoring him, Cassandra rushed over to the Altar and brushed her hand over Jaenelle's head. "You didn't bring her back."