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

by Daughter of the Blood [lit]

  The last time he'd felt something like that was when . . .

  Daemon ran through the ballroom, through the hallway, and raced up the stairs. He hesitated when he saw Alexandra, Philip, Leland, and Robert standing with a group of people outside one of the doors, but another crash and a scream pulled him forward. He hit the door running and exploded into the room.

  The only light in the room came from the open door. The lamps were shattered. A small brass bed, conspicuous because it didn't belong in a sitting room, was twisted almost beyond recognition. Broken vases crunched under him. A group of men, pressed together in the center of the room, stared, deathly pale, at something in the corner.

  Daemon turned toward that corner of the room.

  Wilhelmina huddled in the corner, shaking, whimpering. Her dress, partially undone, had slipped down, revealing one round young shoulder.

  Jaenelle stood in front of her sister, holding the neck of a broken wine bottle with an ease that spoke of long familiarity with a knife. Her blazing sapphire eyes were fixed on the group of men.

  Daemon moved toward her slowly, careful not to break her line of vision. He stopped an arm's length from her. If she lunged, she could gut him. It didn't occur to him to be frightened of her. That shadowy voice he could finally put a name to whispered up from the depths of his own being: Protocol. Protocol. Protocol.

  Jaenelle spoke.

  Daemon glanced at the men, at Philip and Alexandra and the others who were creeping in through the doorway. They looked shocked by the wreckage. He wondered how many of them would have been shocked by what was supposed to have happened here. Philip and Alexandra stared at Jaenelle, and he knew they were hearing unintelligible nonsense. Even he didn't know the Old Tongue well enough to translate all of her beautiful, deadly words.

  "Dr. Carvay?" Philip said, his eyes still on Jaenelle.

  Dr. Carvay, the head of Briarwood, stepped away from the group of men, glanced at Jaenelle, and shook his head. "I'm afraid the child has become unstrung by all the excitement," he said solicitously.

  "Lady." Daemon sent his thoughts along a Black thread. Protocol. "Lady, they can't understand you."

  Jaenelle stopped speaking. As Philip and Alexandra conferred with Dr. Carvay, she struggled to find the common language.

  Dr. Carvay walked toward Jaenelle. "Jaenelle," he said in a too smooth voice that made Daemon turn squarely to face him, "come with Dr. Carvay now, dear. You're upset. You need some of your medicine."

  "Stay aware from her," Daemon growled. An instant later he felt a tightening pain between his legs. He stared at Alexandra, who looked frightened but determined. She was using the Ring against him. Now, when Jaenelle needed him, she was threatening to bring him to his knees. He clenched his teeth against the pain and waited.

  "Come, Jaenelle," Dr. Carvay said again.

  "You can't have my sister," Jaenelle finally said, her voice husky with rage. "Not ever."

  Every man in the room shuddered at the sound of her voice.

  "We don't want your sister. We want to make you bet—"

  "I'll send you into the bowels of Hell," Jaenelle said, her voice rising with her rage. "I'll feed you to the Harpies you helped create. I'll shave you if you ever touch my sister. I'll shave you all!"

  "jaenelle!" Alexandra stepped forward, eyes flashing.

  "You disgrace your family with this behavior. Put that down." She pointed at the broken bottle.

  Daemon watched, heartsick, as Jaenelle, rage and confusion warring in her eyes, lowered her arm and dropped the bottle.

  Alexandra grabbed Jaenelle by the shoulder to lead her from the room. When Daemon moved to follow, Alexandra swung around and pointed a finger at him. "You," she said venomously, "stay with Prince Alexander and see to Leland and Wilhelmina."

  •Bitch, Daemon thought. She was doing this out of jealousy. He started to argue with her to take both girls home now, but another surge of pain through the Ring made him suck in his breath. Arguing now would only make things worse.

  Daemon watched Jaenelle leave the room, escorted by Alexandra, Dr. Carvay, and Robert Benedict. She looked so frail, so vulnerable. He would talk to her again once Wilhelmina was home, take her by force to Cassandra's Altar if that's what he had to do. Saetan had to have enough influence over her to keep her away from Chaillot.

  Saetan. Once he got her away from Beldon Mor, at least he would have some help protecting her.

  By the time the pain from the Ring subsided enough for Daemon to move, Philip had already gotten Wilhelmina to her feet and was tugging ineffectually at her dress. With a low snarl, Daemon turned her around, settled the dress back over her shoulders, and deftly buttoned up the back. Her eyes had a glazed, drugged look, and she was shaking, more from fear than cold.

  "Wilhelmina," Philip said, taking hold of her arm.

  Wilhelmina screamed, flailing her arms at him as she stumbled back into the corner.

  Pushing Philip aside, Daemon stood in front of Wilhelmina and snapped his fingers twice in quick succession. Once her eyes focused on his hand, he raised it slowly until it was level with his face. Then he lowered his hand and held it out to her. "Come, Lady Benedict," he said in a respectful, formal voice. "Prince Alexander and I will escort you home." He held his hand steady, giving her time to decide whether or not to accept it. When she finally did, she threw herself against him, locking her other arm around his waist.

  In the end, despite Philip's glaring at him, he untangled himself from her grasp and carried her downstairs to the waiting carriage and home, where, he fervently hoped, there would be someone who would take care of her.

  chapter fourteen

  1 / Terreille

  As she paced around her bedroom, Alexandra nervously twisted the secondary controlling ring she wore on her right hand. She had done what she had to do. The girl was obviously out of control. Dr. Carvay said Jaenelle had probably been under undue strain for a while, but this last episode—threatening members of Chaillot's council with a broken bottle and speaking gibberish!

  Alexandra knew where to place the blame. She hadn't wanted to believe Robert's hints, hadn't wanted to believe Sadi's interest in the girls was less than innocent, hadn't wanted to believe he might actually have . . . with Jaenelle! With all the perverse things Sadi was capable of doing, was it any wonder that Jaenelle had mistaken the intent of the men who had taken Wilhelmina upstairs so she could rest a bit after overindulging in her first taste of sparkling wine? But to threaten the council, to put them all at risk while Lord Kartane was there and would no doubt send this tale winging back to Hayll! Of course Hayll's High Priestess would be only too happy to send additional assistance, until Chaillot became a mere puppet dancing while Dorothea held the strings.

  Sadi. She would have to send him back to—

  Alexandra's bedroom door clicked as the lock slipped back into place. She whirled, her right hand raised, but before she could use the controlling ring she lay sprawled on the floor, one side of her face ablaze from the blow of a phantom hand.

  Pushing herself into a sitting position, Alexandra stared at Daemon, leaning so casually against the door.

  "My dear," he said in a gentle voice so full of murderous rage it terrified her worse than the most violent shout, "if you ever use the Ring on me again, I'll decorate the walls with your brains."

  "If I use the Ring—"

  Daemon laughed. It was an eerie sound—hollow, malevolent, cold. "I can survive a great deal of pain. Can you?" He smiled a brutal smile. "Shall we put it to the test? Your strength against mine? Your ability to withstand what I'll do to your body—not to mention your mind—while you try to hold me off with that pathetic piece of metal?" He walked toward her. "The trust women have in the Ring is so misplaced. Haven't you learned that much from the stories you've heard about me?"

  "What do you want?" Alexandra tried to scoot backward, but Daemon stepped on her dressing gown, pinning her to the floor.

  "What I've wanted since I came he
re. What I've always wanted. And you're going to get her back for me. Tonight."

  "I don't know what—"

  "You put her back in that . . . place, didn't you, Alexandra? You put her back in that nightmare."

  "She's ill!" Alexandra protested. "She's—"

  "She isn't ill," Daemon snarled. "She was never ill. And you know it. Now you're going to get her out of there." He smiled. "If you don't get her back, I will. But if I have to dp it, I'll flood the streets of Beldon Mor with blood before I'm through, and you, my dear, will be one of the corpses washed into the sewer. Get her out of Briarwood, Alexandra. After that, you won't have to trouble yourself with her. I'll take care of her."

  "Take care of her?" Alexandra spat. "You mean twist her, use her for your own perverse needs. Is that why you walk with her in the farthest parts of the garden? So you can fondle ..." Alexandra choked, but the words kept tumbling out. "No wonder you can't act like a man around a real woman. You need to force children—"

  "Before you begin accusing me, look to your own house, Lady." Daemon pulled her to her feet, one hand holding her wrists behind her back while the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head up.

  "Get her out, Alexandra," he said too softly. "Get her out before the sun rises."

  "I can't!" Alexandra cried. "Dr. Carvay is the head of Briarwood. He'll have to sign the release papers. So will Robert."

  "You put her in there."

  "With Robert! Besides, she was so distraught, she was heavily sedated and shouldn't be moved."

  "How long?" Daemon snapped, letting her fall to the floor.

  "What?" She felt weak and helpless with him towering over her.

  "How long before you can bring her back here?"

  Time. She needed a little time. "Tomorrow afternoon."

  When he was silent for so long, she dared to look up, but quickly looked away. She flinched when he squatted beside her.

  "Listen to me, Alexandra, and listen well. If Jaenelle isn't back here, unharmed, by tomorrow afternoon, you, my dear, will live long enough to regret betraying me."

  Alexandra sank full length on the floor, covering her head with her hands. She couldn't stop seeing that look in his eyes, and she would go mad if she couldn't stop seeing that look in his eyes. Even when she heard him cross the room, heard the door open and quietly click shut, she was still too frightened to move.

  It was so dark.

  Alexandra woke, slowly opening her eyes. She was lying on her back in a lumpy, chilly, damp bed.

  Something tickled her forehead.

  As Alexandra raised her arm to brush the hair from her face, her hand hit something solid a few inches above her head.

  Dirt trickled down, hitting her neck and shoulders.

  Her other hand pressed against the bed—and found dirt.

  She flung her arms out with bruising force—and found dirt.

  Her toes, when she stretched her legs a little, found dirt.

  No, she thought, fighting the panic, this was a dream. A bad dream. She couldn't be ... buried. Couldn't be.

  Shutting her eyes to keep the dirt out, she blindly explored.

  It was a neatly cut rectangle. A well-made grave. If it was a grave, the earth above would be loose. Whoever did this would have had to dig down to put her there.

  Half sobbing, half gasping, Alexandra clawed at the dirt above her face. When her hand hit tree roots, she stopped, stunned.

  That wasn't right. Someone would have had to dig around the roots.

  Scooting down a little, she began clawing at the dirt again. It was packed solid, frozen..

  Think. Think. A witch could pass through solid objects. It was dangerous, yes, but she could do it if she didn't panic.

  Alexandra forced herself to breathe slowly and steadily as she concentrated. Raising one hand, she slowly passed it through the dirt, moving upward, upward, slowly, slowly. She raised her other hand.

  Her hands were moving through the dirt, moving upward to freedom.

  Alexandra let out a small laugh of relief.

  Then her hands hit something more solid than the earth.

  Her fingers poked, prodded. She felt nothing, and yet something was there.

  Concentrating her energy on making the pass, she pushed against that nothingness while her Opal Jewel glowed with her effort, drawing on her reserves, focusing her strength. She sent the force of the Jewel into her hands and pushed.

  A dark, crackling, overwhelming energy snaked down her fingers into her arms. Alexandra shot backward, hitting her head against a dirt wall.

  Her strength was gone. The Jewel hung around her neck, dark and empty. If she'd pushed against that energy another moment longer, her Jewel would have broken, and her mind would probably have shattered with it.

  "No," Alexandra moaned. She beat her hands against the floor of her dirt coffin. "No." She felt dizzy. The air. There was no more air. Gathering her legs beneath her as best she could, Alexandra sprang upward, trying to break free of the earth.

  "no!"

  Alexandra's chin hit the end of her bed. She lay on her stomach, gasping, shivering. A dream. It was, after all, a dream.

  A soft, icy laugh filled her mind. "Not a dream, my dear." Daemon's voice rolled through her mind, sentient thunder. "A taste. I'm a very good, very discreet gravedigger. I've had centuries of practice. Just remember, Alexandra. If Jaenelle isn't back, unharmed, by tomorrow afternoon, you will feed the worms."

  He was gone.

  Alexandra rolled onto her back. It was a trick, a dream. He couldn't have.

  She raised a shaking hand, closing her eyes against the weak glow of the candle-light.

  A dream. An evil dream.

  Alexandra pushed herself up on one elbow—and stared at her hands.

  Her nails were broken, her hands laced with scratches. Her nightgown was torn and dirt-smeared. A sudden, wet warmth flooded down her legs. She stared at the spreading dampness for a full minute before she understood she had wet herself.

  It was almost an hour before she dragged herself off the bed, washed herself, and dressed in a clean nightgown. Then she huddled in a chair with a quilt wrapped around her, staring out the window, desperately waiting for the dawn.

  2 / Terreille

  Kartane inserted a key into a small, inset door hidden by a row of shrubs. The parents who came to Briarwood during visiting hours didn't know about that entrance—unless a parent was also a select member. They didn't know about these softly lit corridors, thickly carpeted to muffle sounds. They didn't know about the gaming room or the sitting room or the little soundproofed cubicles that were just big enough to hold a chair, a bed, and other amusing necessities. They didn't know about the tears and screams and pain. They didn't know about the special "medicines."

  They didn't know about many things.

  Kartane strolled through the corridors to the "playpen," hungry for some amusement. He was furious with Sadi and that little bitch for spoiling the game tonight. It was hard enough to bring girls in. Oh, they could buy lower-class Blood—the right kind of drink during the right kind of game and a pretty girl became a marker on the card table. But it was the aristos, the girls gently brought up with delicate sensibilities that were the most fun—and the hardest to procure. It usually took enticing the father in order to get the child . . . except during Winsol, when a little safframate could be slipped into the sparkling wine. Then the girl could be broken and cleaned up before being brought back to her naive parents. The day after, when the hysteria started, Dr. Carvay would just happen to call and explain to the distraught parents about this prepubescent hysteria that was claiming a number of aristo girls of the Blood. The girl would be tenderly led away for a stay at Briarwood, and in a month or two—or a year or two—she would be returned to the bosom of her family, and eventually married off to spend the rest of her life with that slightly glazed look in her eyes, never understanding her husband's disappointment in her, never remembering what a fine little playmate she'd onc
e been.

  Of course, a few genuinely disturbed girls were also admitted. That little tart Rose had been one. And Sadi's whey-faced bitch.

  Kartane shivered as he stepped into the "playpen," that guarded room where the girls selected for that evening waited in their lacy nighties for the uncles. The girls didn't seem to notice the cold, but the attendant had his shoulders hunched and kept rubbing his hands to warm them. It was like this sometimes. Not always, but sometimes.

  Kartane's perusal of the girls stopped when he met a glazed, unblinking sapphire stare.

  The attendant followed Kartane's gaze, shivered, and looked away. "They topped that one up after bringing her in, but something went queer. She oughtta be panting and rubbing against anything that'll come near her, but she just got real quiet." He shrugged.

  She was nothing to look at, Kartane thought. What was it about her that intrigued Sadi? What was so special about this one that he would risk Dorothea's vengeance?

  Kartane lifted his chin in Jaenelle's direction. "Have her in my room in ten minutes."

  The attendant flinched but nodded his head.

  While he waited, Kartane fortified himself with brandy. He was curious, that was all. If Daemon had taught the girl bedplay, she must know a few amusing tricks. Not that he would actually play with her after Sadi had warned him off. People could disappear so mysteriously after being around the Sadist. And Cornelia's room . . .

  The brandy churned in Kartane's stomach. No, he was just curious. He wanted a few minutes alone with her to see if he could understand Daemon's interest, and he wouldn't do anything that would provoke the Sadist's temper.

  The finger locks on the cubicles were set high in the wall both in the corridor and in the room itself. That kept anxious little girls from escaping at inconvenient moments. Kartane let himself into the room. Once inside, however, he couldn't stop shivering.

  She was sitting on the bed, staring at the wall like a stiff doll someone had tried to arrange in a realistic pose. Kartane sat on the chair. After studying her for several minutes, he said sharply, "Look at me."