Heir to the Shadows

Chapter One

Surrounded by guards, Lucivar Yaslana, the half-breed Eyrien Warlord Prince, walked into the courtyard, fully expecting to hear the order for his execution. There was no other reason for a salt mine slave to be brought to this courtyard, and Zuultah, the Queen of Pruul, had good reason to want him dead. Prythian, the High Priestess of Askavi, still wanted him alive, still hoped to turn him to stud. But Prythian wasn't standing in the courtyard with Zuultah.

Dorothea SaDiablo, the High Priestess of Hayll, was.

Lucivar spread his dark, membranous wings to their full span, taking advantage of Pruul's desert air to let them dry.

Lady Zuultah glanced at her Master of the Guard. A moment later, the Master's whip whistled through the air, and the lash cut deep into Lucivar's back.

Lucivar hissed through his clenched teeth and folded his wings.

"Any other acts of defiance will earn you fifty strokes," Zuultah snapped. Then she turned to confer with Dorothea SaDiablo.

What was the game? Lucivar wondered. What had brought Dorothea out of her lair in Hayll? And who was the angry Green-Jeweled Prince who stood apart from the women, clutching a folded square of cloth?

Cautiously sending out a psychic probe, Lucivar caught all the emotional scents. From Zuultah, there was excitement and the usual underlying viciousness. From Dorothea, a sense of urgency and fear. Beneath the unknown Prince's anger was grief and guilt.

Dorothea's fear was the most interesting because it meant that Daemon Sadi had not been recaptured yet.

A cruel, satisfied smile curled Lucivar's lips.

Seeing the smile, the Green-Jeweled Prince became hostile. "We're wasting time," he said sharply, taking a step toward Lucivar.

Dorothea spun around. "Prince Alexander, these things must be do—"

Philip Alexander opened the cloth, holding two corners as he spread his arms wide.

Lucivar stared at the stained sheet. So much blood. Too much blood. Blood was the living river—and the psychic thread. If he sent out a psychic probe and touched that stain . . .

Something deep within him stilled and became brittle.

Lucivar forced himself to meet Philip Alexander's hostile stare.

"A week ago, Daemon Sadi abducted my twelve-year-old niece and took her to Cassandra's Altar, where he raped and then butchered her." Philip flicked his wrists, causing the sheet to undulate.

Lucivar swallowed hard to keep his stomach down. He slowly shook his head. "He couldn't have raped her," he said, more to himself than to Philip. "He can't. . . . He's never been able to perform that way."

"Maybe it wasn't bloody enough for him before," Philip snapped. "This is Jaenelle's blood, and Sadi was recognized by the Warlords who tried to rescue her."

Lucivar turned reluctantly toward Dorothea. "Are you sure?"

"It came to my attention—unfortunately, too late—that Sadi had taken an unnatural interest in the child." Dorothea lifted her shoulders in an elegant little shrug. "Perhaps he took offense when she tried to fend off his attentions. You know as well as I do that he's capable of anything when enraged."

"You found the body?"

Dorothea hesitated. "No. That's all the Warlords found." She pointed at the sheet. "But don't take my word for it. See if even you can stomach what's locked in that blood."

Lucivar took a deep breath. The bitch was lying. She had to be lying. Because, sweet Darkness, if she wasn't . . .

Daemon had been offered his freedom in exchange for killing Jaenelle. He had refused the offer—or so he had said. But what if he hadn't refused?

A moment after he opened his mind and touched the bloodstained sheet, he was on his knees, spewing up the meager breakfast he'd had an hour before, shaking as something deep within him shattered.

Damn Sadi. Damn the bastard's soul to the bowels of Hell. She was a child\ What could she have done to deserve this? She was Witch, the living myth. She was the Queen they'd dreamed of serving. She was his spitting little Cat. Damn you, Sadi!

The guards hauled Lucivar to his feet.

"Where is he?" Philip Alexander demanded.

Lucivar closed his gold eyes so that he wouldn't have to see that sheet. He had never felt this weary, this beaten. Not as a half-breed boy in the Eyrien hunting camps, not in the countless courts he'd served in over the centuries since, not even here in Pruul as one of Zuultah's slaves.

"Where is he?" Philip demanded again.

Lucivar opened his eyes. "How in the name of Hell should I know?"

"When the Warlords lost the trail, Sadi was heading southeast—toward Pruul. It's well-known—"

"He wouldn't come here." That shattered something deep within him began to burn. "He wouldn't dare come here."

Dorothea SaDiablo stepped toward him. "Why not? You've helped each other in the past. There's no reason—"

"There is a reason," Lucivar said savagely. "If I ever see that cold-blooded bastard again, I'll rip his heart out!"

Dorothea stepped back, shaken. Zuultah watched him warily.

Philip Alexander slowly lowered his arms. "He's been declared rogue. There's a price on his head. When he's found—"

"He'll be suitably punished," Dorothea broke in.

"He'll be executed!" Philip replied heatedly.

There was a moment of heavy silence.

"Prince Alexander," Dorothea purred, "even someone from Chaillot should know that, among the Blood, there is no law against murder. If you didn't have sense enough to prevent an emotionally disturbed child from toying with a Warlord Prince of Sadi's temperament . . ." She shrugged delicately. "Perhaps the child got what she deserved."

Philip paled. "She was a good girl," he said, but his voice trembled with a whisper of doubt.

"Yes," Dorothea purred. "A good girl. So good your family had to send her away every few months to be . . . reeducated."

Emotionally disturbed child. The words were a bellows, stoking the fire within Lucivar to ice-cold rage. Emotionally disturbed child. Stay away from me, Bastard. You'd better stay away. Because if I have the chance, I'll carve you into pieces.

At some point, Zuultah, Dorothea, and Philip had withdrawn to continue their discussion in the cooler recesses of Zuultah's house. Lucivar didn't notice. He was barely aware of being led into the salt mines, barely aware of the pick in his hands, barely aware of the pain as his sweat ran into the new lash wound on his back.

All he saw was the bloodstained sheet.

Lucivar swung the pick.

Liar.

He didn't see the wall, didn't see the salt. He saw Daemon's golden-brown chest, saw the heart beating beneath the skin.

Silky . . . court-trained . . . liar!

Andulvar settled one hip on a corner of the large, blackwood desk.

Saetan glanced up from the letter he was composing. "I thought you were going back to your eyrie."

"Changed my mind." Andulvar's gaze wandered around the private study, finally stopping at the portrait of Cassandra, the Black-Jeweled Queen who had walked the Realms more than 50,000 years ago. Five years ago, Saetan had discovered that Cassandra had faked the final death and had become a Guardian in order to wait for the next Witch.

And look what had happened to the next Witch, Andulvar thought bleakly. Jaenelle Angelline was a powerful, extraordinary child, but still as vulnerable as any other child. All that power hadn't kept her from being overwhelmed by family secrets he and Saetan could only guess at, and by Dorothea's and Hekatah's vicious schemes to eliminate the one rival who could have ended their stranglehold on the Realm of Terreille. He was certain they had been behind the brutality that had made Jaenelle's spirit flee from her body.

Too late to prevent the violation, a friend had taken Jaenelle away from her destroyers and brought her to Cassandra's Altar. There, Daemon Sadi, with Saetan's help, had been able to bring the girl out of the psychic abyss long enough to convince her to heal the physical wounds. But when the Chaillot Warlords arrived to "rescue" her, she panicked and fled back into the abyss.

Her body was slowly healing, but only the Darkness knew where her spirit was—or if she would ever come back.

Pushing aside those thoughts, Andulvar looked at Saetan, took a deep breath, and puffed his cheeks as he let it out. "Your letter of resignation from the Dark Council?"

"I should have resigned a long time ago."

"You had always insisted that it was good to have a few of the demon-dead serving in the Council because they had experience but no personal interest in the decisions."

"Well, my interest in the Council's decisions is very personal now, isn't it?" After signing his name with his customary flourish, Saetan slipped the letter into an envelope and sealed it with black wax. "Deliver that for me, will you?"

Andulvar reluctantly took the envelope. "What if the Dark Council decides to search for her family?"

Saetan leaned back in his chair. "There hasn't been a Dark Council in Terreille since the last war between the Realms. There's no reason for Kaeleer's Council to look beyond the Shadow Realm."

"If they check the registers at Ebon Askavi, they'll find out she wasn't originally from Kaeleer."

"As the Keep's librarian, Geoffrey has already agreed not to find any useful entries that might lead anyone back to Chaillot. Besides, Jaenelle was never listed in the registers—and won't be until there's a reason to include an entry for her."

"You'll be staying at the Keep?"

"Yes."

"For how long?"

Saetan hesitated. "For as long as it takes." When Andulvar made no move to leave, he asked, "Is there something else?"

Andulvar stared at the neat masculine script on the front of the envelope. "There's a demon in the receiving room upstairs who has asked for an audience with you. He says it's important."

Saetan pushed his chair away from the desk and reached for his cane. "They all say that—when they're brave enough to come at all. Who is he?"

"I've never seen him before," Andulvar said. Then he added reluctantly, "He's new to the Dark Realm, and he's from Hayll."

Saetan limped around the desk. "Then what does he want with me? I've had nothing to do with Hayll for seventeen hundred years."

"He wouldn't say why he wants to see you." Andulvar paused. "I don't like him."

"Naturally," Saetan replied dryly. "He's Hayllian."

Andulvar shook his head. "It's more than that. He feels tainted."

Saetan became very still. "In that case, let's talk to our Hayllian Brother," he said with malevolent gentleness.

Andulvar couldn't suppress the shudder that ran through him. Fortunately, Saetan had already turned toward the door and hadn't noticed. They'd been friends for thousands of years, had served together, laughed together, grieved together. He didn't want the man hurt because, at times, even a friend feared the High Lord of Hell.

But as Saetan opened the door and looked at him, Andulvar saw the flicker of anger in his eyes that acknowledged the shudder. Then the High Lord left the study to deal with the fool who was waiting for him.

The recently demon-dead Hayllian Warlord stood in the middle of the receiving room, his hands clasped behind his back. He was dressed all in black, including a black silk scarf wrapped around his throat.

"High Lord," he said, making a respectful bow.

"Don't you know even the basic courtesies when approaching an unknown Warlord Prince?" Saetan asked mildly.

"High Lord?" the man stammered.

"A man doesn't hide his hands unless he's concealing a weapon," Andulvar said, coming into the room. He spread his dark wings, completely blocking the door.

Fury flashed over the Warlord's face and was gone. He extended his arms out in front of him. "My hands are quite useless."

Saetan glanced at the black-gloved hands. The right one was curled into a claw. There was one finger missing on the left. "Your name?"

The Warlord hesitated a moment too long. "Greer, High Lord."

Even the man's name somehow fouled the air. No, not just the man, although it would take a few weeks for the rotting-meat stink to fade. Something else. Saetan's gaze drifted to the black silk scarf. His nostrils flared as he caught a scent he remembered too well. So. Hekatah still favored that particular perfume.

"What do you want, Lord Greer?" Saetan asked, already certain he knew why Hekatah would send someone to see him. With effort, he hid the icy rage that burned within him.

Greer stared at the floor. "I . . . I was wondering if you had any news about the young witch."

The room felt so deliciously cold, so sweetly dark. One thought, one flick of his mind, one brief touch of the Black Jewels' strength and there wouldn't be enough left of that Warlord to be even a whisper in the Darkness.

"I rule Hell, Greer," Saetan said too softly. "Why should I care about a Hayllian witch, young or otherwise?"

"She wasn't from Hayll." Greer hesitated. "I had understood you were a friend of hers."

Saetan raised one eyebrow. "I?"

Greer licked his lips. The words rushed out. "I was assigned to the Hayllian embassy in Beldon Mor, the capital of Chaillot, and had the privilege of meeting Jaenelle. When the trouble started, I betrayed the High Priestess of Hayll's trust by helping Daemon Sadi get the girl to safety." His left hand fumbled with the scarf around his neck and finally pulled it away. "This was my reward."

Lying bastard, Saetan thought. If he didn't have his own use for this walking piece of carrion, he would have ripped through Greer's mind and found out what part the man had really played in this.

"I knew the girl," Saetan snarled as he walked toward the door.

Greer took a step forward. "Knew her? Is she . . ."

Saetan spun around. "She walks among the cildru dyathel."

Greer bowed his head. "May the Darkness be merciful."

"Get out." Saetan stepped aside, not wanting to be fouled by any contact with the man.

Andulvar folded his wings and escorted Greer from the Hall. He returned a few minutes later, looking worried. Saetan stared at him, no longer caring that the rage and hatred showed in his eyes.

Andulvar settled into an Eyrien fighting stance, his feet apart to balance his weight, his wings slightly spread. "You know that statement will spread through Hell faster than the scent of fresh blood."

Saetan gripped the cane with both hands. "I don't give a damn who else he tells as long as that bastard tells the bitch who sent him."

"He said that? He really said that?" Slumped in the only chair in the room, Greer nodded wearily.

Hekatah, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, twirled around the room, her long black hair flying out behind her as she spun.

This was even better than simply destroying the child. Now, with her torn mind and torn, dead body, the girl would be an invisible knife in Saetan's ribs, always twisting and twisting, a constant reminder that he wasn't the only power to contend with.

Hekatah stopped spinning, tipped her head back, and flung her arms up in triumph. "She walks among the cildru dyathe!" Sinking gracefully to the floor, she leaned against an arm of Greer's chair and gently stroked his cheek. "And you, my sweet, were responsible for that. She's of no use to him now."

"The girl is no longer useful to you either, Priestess."

Hekatah pouted coquettishly, her gold eyes glittering with malice. "No longer useful for my original plans, but she'll be an excellent weapon against that gutter son of a whore."

Seeing Greer's blank expression, Hekatah rose to her feet, slapping the dust from her gown as she tsked in irritation. "Your body is dead, not your mind. Do try to think, Greer darling. Who else was interested in the child?"

Greer sat up and slowly smiled. "Daemon Sadi."

"Daemon Sadi," Hekatah agreed smugly. "How pleased do you think he'll be when he finds out his little darling is so very, very dead? And who, with a little help, do you think he'll blame for her departure from the living? Think of the fun pitting the son against the father. And if they destroy each other"—Hekatah opened her arms wide— "Hell will fragment once more, and the ones who were always too frightened to defy him will rally around me. With the strength of the demon-dead behind us, Terreille will finally kneel to me as the High Priestess, as it would have done all those many, many centuries ago if that bastard hadn't always thwarted my ambition."

She looked around the small, almost-empty room in distaste. "Once he's gone, I'll reside again in the splendor that's my due. And you, my faithful darling, will serve at my side.

"Come," she said, guiding him into another small room. "I realize the body's death is a shock . . ."

Greer stared at the boy and girl cowering in a pile of straw.

"We're demons, Greer," Hekatah said, stroking his arm. "We need fresh, hot blood. With it, we can keep our dead flesh strong. And although some pleasures of the flesh are no longer possible, there are compensations."

Hekatah leaned against him, her lips close to his ear. "Landen children. A Blood child is better but more difficult to come by. But dining on a landen child also has compensations."

Greer was breathing fast, as if he needed air.

"A pretty little girl, don't you think, Greer? At your first psychic touch, her mind will burn to hot ash, but primitive emotions will remain . . . long enough . . . and fear is a delicious dinner."

You are my instrument.

Daemon Sadi shifted restlessly on the small bed that had been set up in one of the storage rooms beneath Deje's Red Moon house.

. . . you are my instrument . . . riding the Winds to Cassandra's Altar . . . Surreal already there, crying . . . Cassandra there, angry . . . so much blood . . . his hands covered with Jaenelle's blood . . . descending into the abyss . . . falling, screaming . . . a child who wasn't a child . . . a narrow bed with straps to tie down hands and feet . . . a sumptuous bed with silk sheets . . . the Dark Altar's cold stone . . . black candles . . . scented candles . . . a child screaming . . . his tongue licking a tiny spiral horn . . . his body pinning hers to cold stone while she fought and screamed . . . begging her to forgive him . . . but what had he done? . . . a golden mane . . . his fingers tickling a fawn tail . . . a narrow bed with silk sheets . . . a sumptuous bed with straps . . . forgive me, forgive me . . . his body pinning her down . . . what had he done? . . .

Cassandra's anger cutting him . . . was she safe? . . . was she well? . . . a sumptuous stone bed . . . silk sheets with straps . . . a child screaming . . . so much blood . . . you are my instrument . . . forgive me, forgive me . . .what HAD HE DONE?

Surreal sagged against the wall and listened to Daemon's muffled sobs. Who would have suspected that the Sadist could be so vulnerable? She and Deje knew enough basic healing Craft to heal his body, but neither of them knew how to fix the mental and emotional wounds. Instead of becoming stronger, he was becoming more fragile, vulnerable.

For the first few days after she had brought him here, he had kept asking what had happened. But she could tell him only what she knew.

With the help of the demon-dead girl, Rose, she had entered Briarwood, killed the Warlord who had raped Jaenelle, and then had taken Jaenelle to the Sanctuary called Cassandra's Altar. Daemon had joined her at the Sanctuary. Cassandra was there, too. Daemon had ordered them out of the Altar room in order to have privacy to try to bring Jaenelle's Self back to her body. Surreal had used that time to set traps for Briarwood's "rescue party." When the males arrived, she had held them off for as long as she could. By the time she'd retreated to the Altar room, Cassandra and Jaenelle were gone and Daemon could barely stand. She and Daemon had ridden the Winds back to Beldon Mor and had spent the last three weeks hiding in Deje's Red Moon house.

That's all she could tell him. It wasn't what he needed to hear. She couldn't tell him he had saved Jaenelle. She couldn't tell him the girl was safe and well. And it seemed like the more he struggled to remember, the more fragmented the memories became. But he still had the strength of the Black Jewels, still had the ability to unleash all of that dark power. If he lost his tenuous hold on sanity . . .

Surreal turned at the sound of a stealthy footfall on the stairs at the end of the dim passageway. The sobs behind the closed door stopped.

Moving swiftly, silently, Surreal cornered the woman at the bottom of the stairs. "What do you want, Deje?"

The dishes on the tray Deje was carrying rattled as the woman's body shook. "I—I thought—" She lifted the tray in explanation. "Sandwiches. Some tea. I—"

Surreal frowned. Why was Deje staring at her breasts? It wasn't the look of an efficient matron sizing up one of the girls. And why was Deje shaking like that?

Surreal looked down. Her clenched hand was holding her favorite stiletto, its tip resting against the Gray Jewel that hung on its gold chain above the swell of her breasts. She hadn't been aware of calling in the stiletto or of calling in the Gray. She had been annoyed with the intrusion, but. . .

Surreal vanished the stiletto, pulled her shirt together to hide the Jewel, and took the tray from Deje. "Sorry. I'm a bit edgy."

"The Gray," Deje whispered. "You wear the Gray."

Surreal tensed. "Not when I'm working in a Red Moon house."

Deje didn't seem to hear. "I didn't know you were that strong."

Surreal shifted the tray's weight to her left hand and casually let her right hand drop to her side, her fingers curled around the stiletto's comforting weight. If it had to be done, it would be fast and clean. Deje deserved that much.

She watched Deje's face while the woman mentally rearranged the bits of information she knew about the whore named Surreal, who was also an assassin. When Deje finally looked at her, there was respect and dark satisfaction in the woman's eyes.

Then Deje looked at the tray and frowned. "Best use a warming spell on that tea or it won't be fit to drink."

"I'll take care of it," Surreal said.

Deje started back up the stairs.

"Deje," Surreal said quietly. "I do pay my debts."

Deje gave her a sharp smile and nodded at the tray. "You try to get some food into him. He's got to get his strength back."

Surreal waited until the door at the top of the stairs clicked shut before returning to the storage room that held, perhaps now more than ever, the most dangerous Warlord Prince in the Realm.

Late that evening, Surreal opened the storage room's door without knocking and pulled up short. "What in the name of Hell are you doing?"

Daemon glanced up at her before tying his other shoe. "I'm getting dressed." His deep, cultured voice had a rougher edge than usual.

"Are you mad?" Surreal bit her lip, regretting the word.

"Perhaps." Daemon fastened his ruby cuff links to his white silk shirt. "I have to find out what happened, Surreal. I have to find her."

Exasperated, Surreal scraped her fingers through her hair. "You can't leave in the middle of the night. Besides, it's bitter cold out."

"The middle of the night is the best time, don't you think?" Daemon replied too calmly, shrugging into his black jacket.

"No, I don't. At least wait until dawn."

"I'm Hayllian. This is Chaillot. I'd be a bit too conspicuous in daylight." Daemon looked around the empty little room, lifted his shoulders in a dismissive shrug, took a comb from his coat pocket, and pulled it through his thick black hair. When he was done, he slipped his elegant, long-nailed hands into his trouser pockets and raised an eyebrow as if asking, Well?

Surreal studied the tall, trim but muscular body in its perfectly tailored black suit. Sadi's golden-brown skin was gray-tinged from exhaustion, his face looked haggard, and the skin around his golden eyes was puffy. But even now he was still more beautiful than a man had a right to be.

"You look like shit," she snapped.

Daemon flinched, as if her anger had cut him. Then he tried to smile. "Don't try to turn my head with compliments, Surreal."

Surreal clenched her hands. The only thing to throw at him was the tray with the tea and sandwiches on it. Seeing the clean cup and the untouched food ignited her temper. "You fool, you didn't eat anything!"

"Lower your voice unless you want everyone to know I'm here."

Surreal paced back and forth, snarling every curse she could remember.

"Don't cry, Surreal."

His arms were around her, and beneath her cheek was cool silk.

"I'm not crying," she snapped, gulping back a sob.

She felt rather than heard his chuckle. "My mistake." His lips brushed her hair before he stepped away from her.

Surreal sniffed loudly, wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and pushed her hair from her face. "You're not strong enough yet, Daemon."

"I'm not going to get any better until I find her," Daemon said quietly.

"Do you know how to open the Gates?" she asked. Those thirteen places of power linked the Realms of Terreille, Kaeleer, and Hell.

"No. But I'll find someone who does know." Daemon took a deep breath. "Listen, Surreal, and listen well. There are very few people in the entire Realm of Terreille who can connect you in any way with me. I've made the effort to make sure of that. So unless you stand on the roof and announce it, no one in Beldon Mor will have a reason to look in your direction. Keep your head down. Keep a rein on that temper of yours. You've done more than enough. Don't get yourself in any deeper—because I won't be around to help you out of it."

Surreal swallowed hard. "Daemon . . . you've been declared rogue. There's a price on your head."

"Not unexpected after I broke the Ring of Obedience."

Surreal hesitated. "Are you sure Cassandra took Jaenelle to one of the other Realms?"

"Yes, I'm sure of that much," he said softly, bleakly.

"So you're going to find a Priestess who knows how to open the Gates and follow them."

"Yes. But I have one stop to make first."

"This isn't a good time for social calls," Surreal said tartly.

"This isn't exactly a social call. Dorothea can't use you against me because she doesn't know about you. But she knows about him, and she's used him before. I'm not going to give her the chance. Besides, for all his arrogance and temper, he's a damn good Warlord Prince."

Weary, Surreal leaned against the wall. "What are you going to do?"

Daemon hesitated. "I'm going to get Lucivar out of Pruul."

Saetan appeared on the small landing web carved into the stone floor of one of the Keep's many outer courtyards. As he stepped off the web, he looked up.

Unless one knew what to look for, one only saw the black mountain called Ebon Askavi, only felt the weight of all that dark stone. But Ebon Askavi was also the Keep, the Sanctuary of Witch, the repository of the Blood's long, long history. A place well and fiercely guarded. The perfect place for a secret.

Damn Hekatah, he thought bitterly as he slowly crossed the courtyard, leaning heavily on his cane. Damn her and her schemes for power. Greedy, malicious bitch. He'd stayed his hand in the past because he felt he owed her something for bearing his first two sons. But that debt had been paid. More than paid. This time, he would sacrifice his honor, his self-respect, and anything else he had to if that was the price he had to pay to stop her.

"Saetan."

Geoffrey, the Keep's historian/librarian, stepped from the shadow of the doorway. As always, he was neatly dressed in a slim black tunic and trousers and bare of any ornamentation except his Red Jewel ring. As always, his black hair was carefully combed back, drawing a person's eyes to the prominent widow's peak. But his black eyes looked like small lumps of coal instead of highly polished stone.

As Saetan walked toward him, the vertical line between Geoffrey's black eyebrows deepened. "Come to the library and have a glass of yarbarah with me," Geoffrey said.

Saetan shook his head. "Later perhaps."

Geoffrey's eyebrows pulled down farther, echoing his widow's peak. "Anger has no place in a sickroom. Especially now. Especially yours."

The two Guardians studied each other. Saetan looked away first.

Once they were settled into comfortable chairs and Geoffrey had poured a warmed glass of the blood wine for each of them, Saetan forced himself to look at the large blackwood table that dominated the room. It was usually piled with history, Craft, and reference books Geoffrey had pulled from the stacks—books the two men had searched for touchstones to understand Jaenelle's casual but stunning remarks and her sometimes quirky but awesome abilities. Now it was empty. And the emptiness hurt.

"Have you no hope, Geoffrey?" Saetan asked quietly.

"What?" Geoffrey glanced at the table, then looked away. "I needed . . . occupation. Sitting there, each book was a reminder, and . . ."

"I understand." Saetan drained his glass and reached for his cane.

Geoffrey walked with him to the door. As Saetan went into the corridor, he felt a light, hesitant touch and turned back.

"Saetan . . . do you still hope?"

Saetan considered the question for a long moment before giving the only answer he could give. "I have to."

Cassandra closed her book, rolled her shoulders wearily, and scrubbed her face with her hands. "There's no change. She hasn't risen out of the abyss—or wherever it is she's fallen. And the longer she remains beyond the reach of another mind, the less chance we have of ever getting her back."

Saetan studied the woman with dusty-red hair and tired emerald eyes. Long, long ago when Cassandra had been Witch, the Black-Jeweled Queen, he had been her Consort and had loved her. And she, in her own way, had cared for him—until he made the Offering to the Darkness and walked away wearing Black Jewels. After that, it was more a trading of skills—his in the bed for hers in the Black Widow's Craft—until she faked her own death and became a Guardian. She had played her deathbed scene so well, and his faith in her as a Queen had been so solid, it had never occurred to him that she had done it to end her reign as Witch—and to get away from him.

Now they were united again.

But as he put his arms around her, offering her comfort, he felt that inner withdrawal, that suppressed shudder of fear. She never forgot he walked dark roads that even she dared not travel, never forgot that the Dark Realm had called him High Lord while he still had been fully alive.

Saetan kissed Cassandra's forehead and stepped away. "Get some rest," he said gently. "I'll sit with her."

Cassandra looked at him, glanced at the bed, and shook her head. "Not even you can make the reach, Saetan."

Saetan looked at the pale, fragile girl lying in a sea of black silk sheets. "I know."

As Cassandra closed the door behind her, he wondered if, despite the terrible cost, she derived some small satisfaction from that fact.

He shook his head to clear his mind, pulled the chair closer to the bed, and sighed. He wished the room weren't so impersonal. He wished there were paintings to break up the long walls of polished black stone. He wished there was a young girl's clutter scattered on the blackwood furniture. He wished for so much.

But these rooms had been finished shortly before that nightmare at Cassandra's Altar. Jaenelle hadn't had the chance to imprint them with her psychic scent and make them her own. Even the small treasures she'd left here hadn't been lived with enough, handled enough to make them truly hers. There was no familiar anchor here for her to reach for as she tried to climb out of the abyss that was part of the Darkness.

Except him.

Resting one arm on the bed, Saetan leaned over and gently brushed the lank golden hair away from the too-thin face. Her body was healing, but slowly, because there was no one inside to help it mend. Jaenelle, his young Queen, the daughter of his soul, was lost in the Darkness—or in the inner landscape called the Twisted Kingdom. Beyond his reach.

But not, he hoped, beyond his love.

With his hand resting on her head, Saetan closed his eyes and made the inner descent to the level of the Black Jewels. Slowly, carefully, he continued downward until he could go no further. Then he released his words into the abyss, as he had done for the past three weeks.

*You're safe, witch-child. Come back. You're safe.*

A hand caressed his arm, gently squeezed his shoulder.

Lucivar's temper flared at being pulled from the little sleep his pain-filled body permitted him each night. The chains that tethered his wrists and ankles to the wall weren't long enough for him to lie down and stretch out, so he slept crouched, his buttocks braced against the wall to ease the strain in his legs, his head resting on his crossed forearms, his wings loosely folded around his body.

Long nails whispered over his skin. The hand squeezed his shoulder a little harder. "Lucivar," a deep voice whispered, husky with frustration and weariness. "Wake up, Prick."

Lucivar raised his head. The moonlight coming through the cell's window slit wasn't much to see by, but it was enough. He looked at the man bending over him and, for just a moment, was glad to see his half brother. Then he bared his teeth in a feral smile. "Hello, Bastard."

Daemon released Lucivar's shoulder and stepped back, wary. "I've come to get you out of here."

Lucivar slowly rose to his feet, snarling softly at the noise the chains made. "The Sadist showing consideration? I'm touched." He lunged at Daemon, but the leg irons hobbled his stride, and Daemon glided away, just out of reach.

"Not a very enthusiastic greeting, brother," Daemon said softly.

"Did you really expect a greeting at all, brother?" Lucivar spat.

Daemon ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. "You know why I couldn't do anything to help you before now."

"Yes, I know why," Lucivar replied, his deep voice changing to a lethal croon. "Just as I know why you came here now."

Daemon turned away, his face hidden in the shadows.

"Do you really think setting me free will make up for it, Bastard? Do you really think I'll ever forgive you?"

"You have to forgive me," Daemon whispered. Then he shuddered.

Lucivar narrowed his gold eyes. There was an unexpected fragility in Daemon's psychic scent. At another time, it would have worried him. Now he saw it as a weapon. "You shouldn't have come here, Bastard. I swore I'd kill you if you accepted that offer, and I will."

Daemon turned to face him. "What offer?"

"Maybe trade is a better word. Your freedom for Jaenelle's life."

"I didn't accept that offer!"

Lucivar's hands closed into fists. "Then you killed her for the fun of it? Or didn't you realize she was dying under you until it was too late?"

They stared at each other.

"What are you talking about?" Daemon asked quietly.

"Cassandra's Altar," Lucivar answered just as quietly while his rage swelled, threatening to break his self-control. "You got careless this time. You left the sheet—and all that blood."

Swaying, Daemon stared at his hands. "So much blood," he whispered. "My hands were covered with it."

Tears stung Lucivar's eyes. "Why, Daemon? What did she do to deserve being hurt like that?" His voice rose. He couldn't stop it. "She was the Queen we had dreamed of serving. We had waited for her for so long. You butchering whore, why did you have to kill her?"

Daemon's eyes filled with a dangerous warning. "She's not dead."

Lucivar held his breath, wanting to believe. "Then where is she?"

Daemon hesitated, looked confused. "I don't know. I'm not sure."

Pain tore through Lucivar as fiercely as it had after he had probed the dried blood on the sheet. "You're not sure," he sneered. "You. The Sadist. Not sure where you buried the kill? Try a better lie."

"She's not dead!" Daemon roared.

There was a shout nearby, followed by the sound of running feet.

Daemon raised his right hand. The Black Jewel flashed. Outside the stables where the slaves were quartered, someone let out an agonized shriek. And then there was silence.

Knowing it wouldn't take that long for the guards to find enough courage to enter the stables, Lucivar bared his teeth and pushed to find a crippling weak spot. "Did you just throw her down and take her? Or did you seduce her, lie to her, tell her you loved her?"

"I do love her." Daemon's eyes held a shadow of doubt, a hint of fear. "I had to lie. She wouldn't listen to me. I had to lie."

"And then you seduced her to get close enough for the kill."

Daemon exploded into motion. He paced the small cell, fiercely shaking his head. "No," he said through gritted teeth. "No, no, no!" He spun around, grabbed Lucivar's shoulders, and shoved him against the wall. "Who told you she was dead? WHO?"

Lucivar snapped his arms up, breaking Daemon's grip. "Dorothea."

Pain flashed over Daemon's face. He stepped back. "Since when do you listen to Dorothea?" he asked bitterly. "Since when do you believe that lying bitch?"

"I don't."

"Then why—"

"Words lie. Blood doesn't." Lucivar waited for Daemon to absorb the implication. "You left the sheet, Bastard," he said savagely. "All that blood. All that pain."

"Stop," Daemon whispered, his voice shaking. "Lucivar, please. You don't understand. She was already hurt, already in pain, and I—"

"Seduced her, lied to her, raped a twelve-year-old girl."

"No!"

"Did you enjoy it, Bastard?"

"I didn't—"

"Did you enjoy touching her?"

"Lucivar, please—"

"DID YOU?"

"YES!"

With a howl of rage, Lucivar threw himself at Daemon with enough force to snap the chains—but not fast enough. He crashed to the floor, scraping the skin from his palms and knees. It took a minute for him to get his breath back. It took another minute for him to understand why he was shivering. He stared at the thick layer of ice that covered the cell's stone walls. Then he slowly got to his feet, swaying on shaking legs, feeling a bitterness so deep it lacerated his soul.

Daemon stood nearby, his hands in his trouser pockets, his face an expressionless mask, his golden eyes slightly glazed and sleepy.

"I hate you," Lucivar whispered hoarsely.

"At the moment, brother, the feeling is very mutual," Daemon said too calmly, too gently. "I'm going to find her, Lucivar. I'm going to find her just to prove she isn't dead. And after I find her, I'm going to come back and tear out your lying tongue."

Daemon disappeared. The front of the cell exploded.

Lucivar dropped to the floor, his wings tight to his body, his arms protecting his head while pebbles and sand rained down on him.

There were more shouts now. More running feet.

Lucivar sprang to his feet as the guards poured through the opening. He bared his teeth and snarled, his gold eyes shining with rage. The guards took one look at him and backed out of the cell. For the rest of the night, they blocked the opening but didn't try to enter.

Lucivar watched them, his breath whistling through clenched teeth.

He could have fought his way past the guards and followed Daemon. If Zuultah had tried to stop him by sending a bolt of pain through the Ring of Obedience around his organ, Daemon would have unleashed his strength against her. No matter how bitterly they fought with each other, he and Daemon were always united against an outside enemy.

He could have followed and forced the battle that would have destroyed one or both of them. Instead he remained in the cell.

He had sworn that he would kill Daemon, and he would. But he couldn't quite bring himself to destroy his brother. Not yet.

Chapter Two

The knocking sounded forceful, urgent. Dorothea SaDiablo hid her shaking hands in the folds of her nightgown and positioned herself in the middle of her bedroom, her back to the single candle-light that dimly lit the room.

She had been searching for Daemon Sadi for seven months now. In the hard light of day, with her court all around her, she could almost convince herself that he wouldn't come to Hayll, that he would stay in whatever hole he'd found to hide in. But at night, she was certain she would open a door or turn a corner and find him waiting. He would spin out the pain beyond even her imagining, and then he would kill her. The insult underneath that violence was that he wouldn't destroy her for all the things she'd done to him, he would destroy her because of that child.

That damned child. Hekatah's obsession, the High Lord's reappearance, Greer's death, her son Kartane's mysterious illness, Daemon's fury, Lucivar's sudden hatred for his half brother—all of it came back to that girl.

The doorknob turned. The door opened an inch.

"Priestess?" a male voice called softly.

Giddy relief was swiftly replaced by anger. "Come in," she snapped.

Lord Valrik, Dorothea's Master of the Guard, entered the room and bowed. "Forgive the intrusion at this hour, Priestess, but I felt you should know about this immediately." He snapped his fingers, and two guards entered, holding a man roughly by the arms.

Dorothea stared at the young Hayllian Blood male cowering between the guards. Little more than a boy really. And pretty. Just the way she liked them. Too much the way she liked them.

She took a step toward the youth, pleased at the fear in his glazed eyes. "You don't serve in my court," she purred. "Why are you here?"

"I was sent, Priestess. I was t-told to please you."

Dorothea studied him. The words sounded flat, forced. Not his words at all. There were some kinds of compulsion spells that could force a person into performing a specific set of tasks, even against his will.

She took another step toward him. "Who sent you?"

"He didn't tell me his—"

Before he could finish, Dorothea called in a dagger and drove it into his chest. Her attack was so fast and so vicious, the guards were pulled down with the youth. Then she unleashed the strength of her Red Jewel against his pitifully inadequate inner barriers and burned out his mind, leaving no one, leaving nothing to come back and haunt her.

"Take that to the woodlands beyond the city for whatever wants the carrion," she said through clenched teeth.

The guards grabbed the body and hurried out, Valrik following them.

Dorothea paced, clenching and unclenching her hands. Damn, damn, damn! She should have probed the youth's mind before destroying him so completely, should have found out for certain who had sent him. But this had to be Sadi's work! That bastard was toying with her, trying to wear down her vigilance, trying to catch her off guard.

She hid her face in her shaking hands.

Sadi was out there. Somewhere. Until he was dead. . . . No! Not dead. There would be no hope of controlling him then, and once he was demon-dead, he would surely join forces with the High Lord. And she had never forgotten the threat Saetan had made, his voice rising out of a swirling nightmare: when Daemon Sadi died, Hayll would die.

Finally exhausted, Dorothea returned to her bed. She hesitated a moment, then extinguished the candle-light completely. There was more safety in full darkness—if there was any safety at all.

Dorothea threw back her cloak's hood and took a deep breath before entering the small sitting room in the old Sanctuary. Hekatah was already sitting before the unlit hearth, her hood pulled up to hide her face. An empty ravenglass goblet sat on the table in front of her.

Dorothea called in a silver flask and set it beside the goblet.

Hekatah let out an annoyed sniff at the size of the flask, but pointed one finger at it. The flask opened and lifted from the table. Its hot, red contents poured into the goblet, which then glided through the air to Hekatah's waiting hand. She drank deeply.

Dorothea clenched her hands and waited. Finally out of patience, she snapped, "Sadi is still on the loose."

"And each day will hone his temper a little more," Hekatah said in that girlish voice that always seemed at odds with her vicious nature.

"Exactly."

Hekatah sighed like a sated woman. "That's good."

"Good?" Dorothea exploded from the chair. "You don't know him!"

"But I do know his father."

Dorothea shuddered.

Hekatah set the empty goblet on the table. "Calm yourself, Sister. I'm weaving a delicious web for Daemon Sadi, a web he won't escape from because he won't want to escape."

Dorothea went back to her chair. "Then he can be Ringed again."

Hekatah laughed softly, maliciously. "Oh, no, he'd be useless to us Ringed. But don't worry. He'll be hunting bigger prey than you." She wagged a finger at Dorothea. "I've been very busy on your behalf."

Dorothea pressed her lips together, refusing to take the bait.

Hekatah waited a minute. "He'll be going after the High Lord."

Dorothea stared. "Why?"

"To avenge the girl."

"But Greer is the one who destroyed her!"

"Sadi doesn't know that," Hekatah said. "By the time I'm done telling him the sad tale of why this happened to the girl, the only thing he'll want to do is tear out Saetan's heart. Naturally the High Lord will protest such action."

Dorothea sat back. It had been months since she'd felt this good. "What do you need from me?"

"A troop of guards to help me spring a trap."

"Then I'd better choose males who are expendable."

"Don't concern yourself about the guards. Sadi won't be any threat to them." Hekatah stood up, an unspoken dismissal.

When they were outside, Hekatah said coolly, "You've said nothing about my gift, Sister."

"Your gift?"

"The boy. I'd thought to keep him for myself, but you were entitled to some compensation for losing Greer. He's a most attentive servant."

"You know what to do?" Hekatah said, handing two vials to Greer.

"Yes, Priestess. But are you sure he'll go there?"

Hekatah caressed Greer's cheek. "For whatever reason, Sadi has gone to every Dark Altar, working his way east. He'll go there. It's the only Gate left before the one located near the ruins of SaDiablo Hall." She tapped her fingers against her lips and frowned. "The old Priestess there may be a problem. However, her assistant is a practical girl—a trait one finds in abundance among the less-gifted Blood. You'll be able to deal with her."

"And the old Priestess?"

Hekatah shrugged delicately. "A meal shouldn't be wasted."

Greer smiled, bowed over the hand she held out to him, and left.

Humming, Hekatah performed the first movements of a court dance. For seven months Daemon Sadi had slipped through her traps, and his retaliation every time he was driven away from a Gate had made even her most loyal servants in the Dark Realm afraid to strike at him. For seven months she had failed. But so had he.

There were very few Priestesses left in Terreille who knew how to open the Gates. Those who hadn't gone into hiding after her first warning had been eliminated.

It had cost her some of her strongest demons, but she'd made sure Sadi never had time to figure out for himself how to light the black candles in the correct sequence to open a Gate. Of course, if he had gone straight to Ebon Askavi, his search would have ended months ago. But she had spent century upon century turning a natural awe of the place into a subtle terror—which wasn't difficult since the one time she had been inside the Keep the place had terrified her. Now, no one in Terreille would willingly go there to ask for help or sanctuary unless he was desperate enough to risk anything—and most of the time, not even then.

So Sadi, with no safe place to go and no one he could trust, would continue hiding, searching, running. When he finally got to the Gate where she would be waiting, the strain of the past months would make him all the more susceptible to what she'd planned.

"Rule Hell while you can, you gutter son of a whore," she said as she hugged herself. "This time I have the perfect weapon."

Saetan opened the door of his private study and froze as the Harpy standing in the corridor drew back the bowstring and aimed her arrow at his heart.

"A rather blunt way of requesting an audience, isn't it, Titian?" he asked dryly.

"None of my weapons are blunt, High Lord," the Harpy snarled.

Saetan studied her for a moment before stepping back into the room. "Come in and say what you've come to say." Leaning heavily on his cane, he limped to the blackwood desk, settled himself on one corner, and waited.

Titian came in slowly, her anger swirling like a winter storm. She stood at the other end of the room, facing him, fearless in her fury, a demon-dead Black Widow Queen of the Dea al Mon. Once more the bowstring was drawn back, the arrow aimed at Saetan's heart.

His patience, already frayed from the unrelenting months, snapped. "Put that thing down before I do something we'll both regret."

Titian didn't waver. "Haven't you already done something you regret, High Lord? Or are you so filled with the pus of jealousy you have no room for regret?"

The walls of the Hall rumbled. "Titian," he said too softly, "I won't warn you again."

Reluctantly, Titian vanished the bow and arrow.

Saetan crossed his arms. "Actually, your forbearance surprises me, Lady. I expected to have this conversation long before now."

Titian hissed. "Then it's true? She walks among the cildru dyathe!"

Saetan watched the tension building in her. "And if it is?"

Titian looked at him for one awful moment, then threw back her head and keened.

Saetan stared at her, shaken. He had known the rumor would drift through Hell. He had expected that Titian, like Char, the leader of the cildru dyathe, would seek him out. He had expected their fury. Their fury he could face. Their hatred he could accept. But not this.

"Titian," he said, his voice unsteady. "Titian, come here."

Titian continued to keen.

Saetan limped over to her. She didn't seem to notice when he took her in his arms and held her tightly against him. He stroked her long silver hair, and murmured words of sorrow in the Old Tongue.

"Titian," he said gently when the keening faded to a whimper, "I'm truly sorry for the pain I've caused you, but it couldn't be helped."

Titian buried her fist in his belly and sent him sprawling.

"You're sorry," she snarled as she stormed around the room. "Well, so am I. I'm sorry it was only my fist and not a knife just then. You deserve to be gutted for this! Jealous old man. Beast! Couldn't you let her enjoy an innocent romance without tearing her apart out of spite?"

Finally able to catch his breath, Saetan propped himself up on one elbow. "Witch doesn't become cildru dyathe, Titian," he said coldly. "Witch doesn't become one of the demon-dead. So tell me which you prefer: that I say she walks among the cildru dyathe, or that I leave a vulnerable young girl open to further enemy attacks?"

Titian stopped, an arrested look in her large blue eyes. She leaned over Saetan, searching his face. "Witch can't become demon-dead?"

"No. But you and Char are the only others in Hell who know that."

"I suppose," she said slowly, "that the most convincing way to fool an enemy would be to fool a friend." She considered this for a moment more and offered him a hand up. She retrieved his cane and looked him in the eye. "A Harpy is a Harpy because of the way she died. That made it easy to believe the rumors."

That was more of an apology than he'd thought to get from Titian.

Saetan took the cane from her, grateful for the support. "I'll tell you the same thing I told Char," he said. "If you're still a friend and want to help, there is something you can do."

"What is that, High Lord?"

"Stay angry."

A fire kindled in Titian's eyes. A smile brushed her lips and was gone. "An arrow that just misses would be highly convincing."

Saetan raised one eyebrow and clucked his tongue. "A Dea al Mon witch missing a target?"

Titian shrugged. "Even the Dea al Mon don't always succeed."

"Just in case you miss missing, try not to aim for anything terribly vital," Saetan said dryly.

Titian blinked. The smile brushed her lips again. "There's only one part of a male's anatomy a Harpy aims for, High Lord. How terribly vital do you consider it?"

"Go," Saetan said.

Titian bowed and left.

Saetan stared at the study door for a moment before limping to a chair. He sank into it with a sigh, stretching out his legs. A minute later he left the study, making his way through the corridors to the upper rooms in the Hall, hoping Mephis or Andulvar would be around.

He wanted company. Male company.

Having Titian for a friend didn't make a man feel comfortable.

In the moonlight, the lawn was a ghostly silver rippled by the wind. Throughout the hot midsummer's day, storm clouds had been piling up on the horizon, and thunder had rumbled in the distance.

Surreal buttoned her jacket and hugged herself for warmth. The air had turned cold. An hour from now the storm would break over Beldon Mor. But she would be back at Deje's Red Moon house by then, the guest of honor at her quiet retirement dinner.

After that night at Cassandra's Altar, she had discovered that she no longer had the stomach for playing the bed, not even when it would have made a kill easier. She wouldn't starve if she gave up whoring. Lord Marcus, Sadi's man of business, also handled her investments and handled them well. Besides, she'd always preferred being an assassin to being a whore.

Surreal shook her head. She could think about that later.

Moving silently through the small shrub garden that backed the lawn, she reached the large tree with the branch that was perfect for a swing. Something hung from that branch, but it wasn't a child's toy.

Surreal looked up, trying to feel the ghostly presence, trying to see the transparent shape.

"You won't find her," a girl's voice said. "Marjane is gone."

Surreal spun around and stared at the girl with the slit throat and bloody dress. She'd met Rose seven months ago when Jaenelle had shown her Briarwood's awful secret. The next night, she and Rose had gotten Jaenelle out of Briarwood, but too late to stop the vicious rape.

"What happened to her?" Surreal said, glancing toward the tree. A silly thing to ask about a girl long dead.

Rose shrugged. "She faded. All the old ghosts have finally returned to the Darkness." She studied Surreal. "Why are you here?"

Surreal took a deep breath. "I came to say good-bye. I'm leaving Chaillot in the morning—and I'm not coming back."

Rose thought about this. "If you hold my hand, maybe you'll be able to see Dannie. I don't know how Jaenelle always saw the ghosts. Even after I became a demon, I couldn't see the oldest ones unless she was here. She said that was because this was one of the living Realms."

Surreal took Rose's hand. They walked toward the vegetable garden.

"Is Jaenelle all right?" Rose asked hesitantly.

Surreal pushed her windblown hair from her face. "I don't know. She was hurt very badly. A witch at Cassandra's Altar took her away to a safe place. She might have reached a Healer in time."

They stopped at the carrot patch where two redheaded sisters had been buried in secret, as all these children had been buried. But there were no shapes, no whispery voices. Surreal didn't feel the numb horror she had the first time she'd seen this garden. Now there was grief mingled with the hope that those young girls were finally beyond the memory of what had been done to them.

Dannie was the only one there. Surreal tried hard not to look at the ghostly stump where a leg should have been. Her stomach tightened as she tried even harder not to remember what had been done with that leg.

Burying her pity, Surreal sent out a psychic thread of warmth and friendship toward the ghost-girl.

Dannie smiled.

Even in death the Blood were cruel, Surreal thought as she squeezed Rose's cold hand. How empty, how lonely the years must have been for those who weren't strong enough to become demon-dead but were too strong to return to the Darkness. They remained, chained to their graves, unseen, unheard, uncared for—except by Jaenelle.

What had happened to her?

Surreal and Rose finally walked back to the shrub garden. "They should all be gutted," Surreal growled, releasing Rose's hand. She leaned against the tree and stared at the building. Most of the windows were dark, but there were a few dim lights. Calling in her favorite stiletto, she balanced it in her hand and smiled. "Maybe one or two can feed the garden before I go."

"No," Rose said sharply, placing herself in front of Surreal. "You can't touch any of Briarwood's uncles. No one can."

Surreal straightened, a feral expression in her gold-green eyes. "I'm very good at what I do, Rose."

"No," Rose insisted. "When Jaenelle's blood was spilled, it woke the tangled web she created. It's a trap for all the uncles."

Surreal looked at the building, then at Rose. There had been rumors of a mysterious illness that was affecting a number of Chaillot's high-ranking members of the council—like Robert Benedict—as well as a few special dignitaries—like Kartane SaDiablo. "This trap will kill them?"

"Eventually," Rose said.

A vicious light filled Surreal's eyes. "What about a cure?"

"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood."

"Is it painful?"

Rose grinned. "To each will come what he gave."

Surreal vanished her stiletto. "Then let the bastards scream."

In the light of two smoking torches, the young Priestess double-checked the tools she had placed on the Dark Altar. Everything was ready: the four-branched candelabra with its black candles, the small silver cup, and the two vials of dark liquid—one with a white stopper, the other with a red.

When the stranger with the maimed hands had given her the vials, he'd assured her that the antidote would keep her from being affected by the witch's brew that had been designed to subdue a Warlord Prince.

She paced behind the Dark Altar, chewing on her thumbnail. It had sounded so easy, and yet . . .

She froze, not even daring to breathe as she tried to see beyond the wrought-iron gate into the dark corridor. Was something there?

Nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows, gliding toward the Altar with a predator's grace.

The Priestess squatted behind the Altar, broke the seal on the white-stoppered vial, and gulped the contents. She vanished the vial and rose. When she looked toward the wrought-iron gate, she clutched her Yellow Jewel as if it might protect her.

He stood on the other side of the Altar, watching her. Despite the rumpled clothing and the disheveled hair, he exuded a cold, carnal power.

The Priestess licked her lips and rubbed her damp hands on her robe. His golden eyes looked sleepy, slightly glazed.

Then he smiled.

She shivered and took a deep breath. "Have you come for advice or assistance?"

"Assistance," he said in a deep, cultured voice. "Have you the training to open the Gate?"

How could a man be so beautiful? she thought as she nodded. "There is a price." Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows.

With his left hand, he drew an envelope out of an inner pocket in his coat and laid it on the Altar. "Will that be sufficient?"

As she reached for it, she glanced at him, her hand frozen above the thick white envelope. There was something in the question, although courteously asked, that warned her it had better be enough.

She forced herself to pick up the envelope and look inside. Then she leaned against the Altar for support. Gold thousand marks. At least ten times what the stranger with the maimed hands had offered.

But she already had an agreement with the stranger, and there would be time to pocket the marks before the guards arrived.

The Priestess carefully placed the envelope on the far corner of the Altar. "Most generous," she said, hoping she sounded unimpressed.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted the silver cup high over her head, then placed it carefully in front of her. She broke the seal on the red-stoppered vial, poured the contents into the cup, and held it out to him. "The journey through a Gate is a difficult undertaking. This will assist you."

He didn't take the cup.

She made an impatient sound and took a sip, trying not to gag on the bitter taste, then held out the cup.

He held it in his left hand, his nostrils flaring at the smell, but didn't drink.

A minute passed. Two.

With an imperceptible shrug, he gulped the contents of the cup.

The Priestess held her breath. How soon before it worked? How soon before the guards came?

His eyes changed. He swayed. Then he leaned across the Altar and looked at her the way a lover looks at his lady. She couldn't take her eyes off his lips. Soft. Sensual. She leaned toward him. One kiss. One sweet kiss.

Just before her lips touched his, his right hand closed around her wrist. "Bitch," he snarled softly.

Startled, she tried to pull away.

As his hand tightened, she stared at the Black-Jeweled ring.

His long nails pierced her skin. Then she felt the sharp needle prick of the snake tooth beneath his ring-finger nail, felt the venom chill her blood.

She flailed at him with her other hand, trying to reach his face, trying to scream for help as her vision blurred and her lungs refused to fill with needed air.

He broke both her wrists, snapping the bones as he thrust her away from him.

"The venom in my snake tooth doesn't work as quickly as you may think," he said too quietly, too gently. "In the end, you'll be able to scream. You'll tear yourself apart doing it, but you'll scream."

Then he was gone, and there was nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows.

By the time the guards arrived, she was screaming.

The floor rolled beneath him, teasing legs that already shook from exhaustion and were cramped by the foul witch's brew.

Behind that door was a safe place. As he reached for it, the floor rolled again, knocking his feet out from under him. His shoulder hit the door, cracking the old, rotting wood, and he fell into the room, landing heavily on his side.

"Bitch," he snarled softly.

Gray mist. A shattered crystal chalice. Black candles. Golden hair.

Blood. So much blood.

Words lie. Blood doesn't. "Shut up, Prick," he rasped.

The floor kept rolling under him. He dug his long nails into the wood, trying to keep his balance, trying to think.

His fever was dangerously high, and he knew he needed food, water, and rest. Right now, he was prey to whoever might think to look for him in this abandoned house where he had spent his earliest years with Tersa, his real mother.

Everything has a price.

If he had given up outside that Sanctuary three days ago, if he had let the Hayllian guards find him, he might not have become so ill from the brew. But he had ruthlessly pushed his body to the point of collapse in order to reach the Gate near the ruins of SaDiablo Hall.

And every time exhaustion crept in, every time his strength of will slipped a little, a gray mist began to cloud his mind, a mist he knew held something very, very terrible. Something he didn't want to see.

You are my instrument.

Words, like flickering black lightning, came out of that mist, threatening to sear his soul.

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

He was less than a mile from the Gate.

"Lucivar," he whispered. But he didn't have the strength to feel angry at his brother's betrayal.

You are my instrument.

"No." He tried to stand up, but he couldn't do it. Still, something in him required defiance. "No. I am not your instrument. I . . . am . . . Daemon . . . Sadi."

He closed his eyes, and the gray mist engulfed him.

With a groan, Daemon rolled onto his back and slowly opened his eyes. Even that was almost too much effort. At first, he wondered if he had gone blind. Then he began to make out dim shapes in the darkness.

Night. It was night.

Breathing slowly, he began to assess the physical damage.

He felt as dry as touchwood, as inflexible as stone. His muscles burned. His belly ached from hunger, and the craving for water was fierce. The fever had broken at some point, but . . .

Something was wrong.

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

The words Lucivar had spoken swam round and round, growing larger, growing solid. They crashed against his mind, fragmenting it further.

Daemon screamed.

You are my instrument.

As Saetan's words thundered inside him, there was more pain—and there was fear. Fear that the mist filling his mind might part and show him something terrible.

Daemon.

Holding on fiercely to the memory of Jaenelle saying his name like a soft, sighing caress, Daemon got to his feet. As long as he could remember that, he could hold the other voices at bay.

His legs felt too heavy, but he managed to leave the house and follow the remnants of the drive that would take him to the Hall. Even though every movement was a fiery ache, by the time he reached the Hall, he was almost moving with his usual gliding stride.

But there was still something very wrong. It was hard to hold on to the Warlord Prince called Daemon Sadi, hard to hold on to his sense of self. But he had to hold on for a little while longer. He had to.

Gathering the last of his strength and will, Daemon cautiously approached the small building that held the Dark Altar.

Hekatah prowled the small building that stood in the shadow of the ruins of SaDiablo Hall. She shook her fists in the air, frustrated beyond endurance by the past three days. Even so, every time she circled the Altar, she glanced at the wall behind it, fearful it would turn to mist and Saetan would step through the Gate to challenge her.

But the High Lord was too preoccupied with his own concerns lately to pay attention to her.

Her main problem now was Daemon Sadi.

After drinking the brew she'd made, he could not have walked away from that Dark Altar, despite what those idiot guards swore. But if he was actually making his way to this Gate . . . By now the second part of her brew, the part that would make his mind receptive to her carefully rehearsed words, would be at its peak. She had planned to whisper all her poisoned words while she nursed him through the fever and the pain so that, when the fever broke, those words would solidify into a terrible truth he wouldn't be able to escape. Then all that strength, all that rage would become a dagger aimed right at Saetan's heart.

All her carefully made plans were being ruined because . . .

Hekatah jerked to a stop.

There was a silence within the night's silence.

She glanced at the unlit torches on the walls and decided against lighting them. There was enough moonlight to see by.

Not wanting to waste her strength on a sight shield, Hekatah slipped into a shadowy corner. Once he entered the Altar room, she would be behind him and could startle him with her presence.

She waited. Just when she was sure she'd been mistaken, he was there, without warning, standing just outside the wrought-iron gate, staring at the Altar. But he didn't enter the room.

Frowning, Hekatah turned her head slightly to look at the Altar. It was just as it should be. The candelabra was tarnished, and the wax from the black candles she'd burned so carefully so they wouldn't look new hung like stalactites from the silver arms.

Fearing that he might actually leave, Hekatah stepped up to the wrought-iron gate. "I've been waiting for you, Prince."

"Have you?" His voice sounded rusty, exhausted.

Perfect.

"Are you the one I should thank for the demons at the other Altars?" he asked.

How could he know she was a demon? Did he know who she was? Suddenly, she didn't feel confident about dealing with this son who was too much like his father, but she shook her head sadly. "No, Prince. There's only one power in Hell that commands demons. I'm here because I had a young friend who was very special to me. A friend, I think, we had in common. That's why I've been waiting for you."

Hell's fire! Couldn't there be some expression in his eyes to tell her if she was getting through to him?

"Young is a relative term, don't you think?"

He was playing with her! Hekatah gritted her teeth. "A child, Prince. A special child." She forced a pleading note into her voice. "I've waited here at great risk. If the High Lord finds out I've tried to tell her friends . . ." She glanced at the wall behind the Altar.

Still no reaction from the man on the other side of the gate.

"She walks among the cildru dyathe," Hekatah said.

A long silence. "That isn't possible," he finally said. His voice was flat, totally without emotion.

"It's true." Was she wrong about him? Was he only trying to escape Dorothea? No. He had cared for the girl. She sighed. "The High Lord is a jealous man, Prince. He doesn't share what he claims for himself—especially if what he claims is a female body. When he discovered the girl's affection for another male, he did nothing to prevent her from being raped. And he could have, Prince. He could have. The girl managed to escape afterward. In time, and with help, she would have healed. But the High Lord didn't want her to heal, so, under the pretense of helping her, he used another male to finish what was begun. It destroyed her completely. Her body died, and her mind was torn apart. Now she's a dead, blank-eyed pet he plays with."

Hekatah looked up and wanted to scream with frustration. Had he heard any of it? "He should pay for what he's done," she said shrilly. "If you've courage enough to face him, I can open the Gate for you. Someone who remembers what she could have been should demand payment for what he did."

He looked at her for a long time. Then he turned and walked away.

Swearing, Hekatah began to pace. Why did he say nothing? It was a plausible story. Oh, she knew he'd been accused of the rape, but she also knew it wasn't true. And she wasn't completely convinced that he had been at Cassandra's Altar that night. All the males who'd sworn they had seen him had come from Briarwood. They could have said that to keep the Chaillot Queens from looking too closely at them. Surely—

A scream shattered the night.

Hekatah jumped, shaken by the awful sound. Bestial, animal, human. None and all. Whatever could make a sound like that . . .

Hekatah quickly lit the black candles and waited impatiently for the wall to change to mist. Just before stepping through the Gate, she realized there was no one here to snuff out the candles and close the entrance to the other Realms. If that thing . . .

Hekatah raised her hand and Red-locked the wrought-iron gate.

Another scream tore the night.

Hekatah bolted through the Gate. She might be a demon, but she didn't want whatever that was to follow her into the Dark Realm.

Words swam round and round, slicing his mind, slicing his soul.

The gray mist parted, showing him a Dark Altar.

Blood. So much blood. . . . he used another male . . .

The world shattered.

You are my instrument.

His mind shattered. . . . destroyed her completely.

Screaming in agony, he fled through the mist, through a landscape washed in blood and filled with shattered crystal chalices.

Words lie. Blood doesn't.

He screamed again and tumbled into the shattered inner landscape landens called madness and the Blood called the Twisted Kingdom.