by Anne Bishop
"I stayed on him." Daemon watched the boy's smooth, easy motions. "But I had some trouble with him by a certain tree."
Andrew looked flustered. The hand brushing the stallion stuttered a little before picking up the rhythm again.
Daemon's eyes narrowed, and his voice turned dangerously silky. "What's special about that tree, Andrew?"
"Just a tree." Andrew glanced at Daemon's eyes and flinched. He shifted his feet, uneasy. "It's on the other side of the rise, you see. The first place out of sight of the house."
"So?"
"Well . . ." Andrew looked at Daemon, pleading. "You won't tell, will you?" He jerked his head toward the house. "It could cause a whole lot of trouble up there if they found out."
Daemon fought to keep his temper reined in. "Found out what?"
"About Miss Jaenelle."
Daemon shifted position, the motion so fluid and predatory that Andrew instantly stepped back, staying close to the horse as if for protection. "What about Miss Jaenelle?" he crooned.
Andrew gnawed on his lip. "At the tree . . . we . . ."
Daemon hissed.
Andrew paled, then flushed crimson. His eyes flashed with anger, and his fists clenched. "You . . . you think I'd . . ."
"Then what do you do at that tree?"
Andrew took a deep breath. "We change places."
Daemon frowned. "Change places?"
"Change horses. I've got a slight build. The pony can carry me."
"And she rides . . . ?"
Andrew put a tentative hand on the stallion's neck.
Daemon exploded. "You little son of a whoring bitch, you put a young girl up on that!"
The stallion snorted his displeasure at this display of temper.
Common sense and dancing hooves won out over Daemon's desire to throttle the stable lad.
Caught between the stallion and the angry Warlord Prince, Andrew's lips twitched with a wry smile. "You should see her up on that. And he takes care of her, too."
Daemon turned away, his anger spent. "Mother Night," he muttered, shaking his head as he walked toward the house and a welcome hot shower. "Mother Night."
CHAPTER SEVEN
1—Terreille
"I just told you," Philip snapped. "You won't be needed today."
"I heard what you—"
A muscle in Philip's jaw twitched. "You have a free day. I realize Hayllians think we're a backward people, but we have museums and art galleries and theaters. There must be something you could do for a day that wouldn't be beneath you."
Daemon's eyes narrowed. At breakfast Leland had been skittish and unnaturally quiet, Alexandra had been unaccountably tense, Robert had been nowhere in sight, and now Philip was displaying this erratic anger and trying to force him out of the house for the day. "Very well."
Accepting a curt dismissal, he requested a carriage to take him into the shop district of Beldon Mor and went to the kitchen to see if Cook knew what was going on. But that lady, too, was in a fine fit of temper, and he retreated before she saw him, wincing as she slammed a heavy roasting pan onto her worktable.
He spent the morning wandering in and out of bookshops, gathering a variety of novels by Chaillot authors and puzzling over what could have put everyone in the household into such a state. Whatever it was, the answers weren't in the city.
He returned to the Angelline estate by lunchtime, only to find out that the entire family had left on an errand.
Annoyed at being thwarted, Daemon stacked the books on the writing desk, changed his clothes, and went to the stables.
There, too, everyone was on edge. Guinness snapped at the stable lads while they struggled to control overwrought horses.
"I'll take the stallion out if you want," Daemon offered.
"You tired of living?" Guinness snapped. He took a deep breath and relented. "It would help to get that one out of the yard for a while."
"Things are a bit tense around here."
"Ayah."
When Guinness offered nothing more, Daemon went to the stallion's box stall and waited for Andrew to saddle him. The boy's hands shook while he checked the girth. Tired of evasiveness, Daemon took the horse out of the yard and headed for the field.
Once they were out of the yard, Demon was eager, responsive, and excited. Whatever was setting the humans on edge, the stallion felt it too, but it made that simpler mind happy.
Not interested in a fight, Daemon turned them toward the tree.
Demon stopped at the tree and watched the rise they'd just come over, patiently waiting. The horse stood that way for ten minutes before eagerness gave way to dejection. When Daemon turned the horse toward the path, there was no resistance, and the gallop was halfhearted at best.
An hour later, Daemon handed the reins to Andrew and entered the house by a back door. He felt it as soon as he stepped through the doorway, and a rush of blazing anger crested and broke over him.
Striding through the corridors, Daemon slammed into his room, hurriedly showered and dressed. If he had encountered Philip during that brief walk to his room, he would have killed him.
How dare that Gray-Jeweled fool try to keep him away? How dare he?
Daemon knew his eyes were glazed with fury, but he didn't care. He tore out of his room and went hunting for the family.
He spun around a corner and skidded to a halt.
Wilhelmina looked pale but relieved. Graff scowled. Leland and Alexandra stared at him, startled and tense. Philip's shoulders straightened in obvious challenge.
Daemon saw it all in an instant and ignored it. The other girl commanded his full attention.
She looked emaciated, her arms and legs little more than sticks. Her head hung down, and lank strands of gold hair hid most of her face.
"Have you forgotten your manners?" Graff's bony fingers poked the girl's shoulder.
The girl's head snapped up at Graff's sharp prod, and her eyes, those eyes, locked onto his for a brief moment before she lowered her gaze, made a wobbly curtsy, and murmured, "Prince."
Daemon's heart pounded and his mouth watered.
Knowing he was out of control, he bowed curtly and harshly replied, "Lady." He nodded to Philip and the others, turned on his heel, and once out of sight, bolted for the library and locked the door.
His breath came in ragged sobs, his hands shook, and may the Darkness help him, he was on fire.
No, he thought fiercely as he stormed around the room looking for some explanation, some kind of escape.NO! He was not like Kartane. He had never hungered for a child's flesh. He was not like Kartane!
Collapsing against a bookcase, Daemon forced one shaking hand to slide to the mound between his trembling legs . . . and sobbed with relief to find those inches of flesh still flaccid . . . unlike the rest of him, which was seared by a fierce hunger.
Pushing away from the bookcase, Daemon went to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Think, damn you, think.
He closed his eyes and pictured the girl, piece by piece. As he concentrated on remembering her body, the fire eased. Until he remembered those sapphire eyes locking onto his.
Daemon laughed hysterically as tears rolled down his face.
He had accepted that Witch was a child, but he hadn't been prepared for his reaction when he finally saw her. He could take some comfort that he didn't want the child's body, but the hunger he felt for what lived inside that body scared him. The thought of being sent to another court where he couldn't see her at all scared him even more.
But it had been decades since he'd served in a court for more than a year. How was he going to keep this dance going until she was old enough to accept his surrender?
And how was he going to survive if he didn't stay?
2—Terreille
Early the next morning Daemon staggered to the kitchen, his eyes hot and gritty from a sleepless night, his stomach aching from hunger. After leaving the library yesterday afternoon, he'd stayed in his room, unwilling to have dinn
er with the family and unwilling to meet anyone if he slipped down to the kitchen for something to eat.
As he reached the kitchen, the muffled giggles immediately stopped as two very different pairs of blue eyes watched him approach. Cook, looking happier than he'd ever seen her, gave him a warm greeting and told him the coffee was almost ready.
Moving cautiously, as though approaching something young and wild, Daemon sat down at one end of the kitchen table, on Jaenelle's left. With a pang of regret, he looked at the remains of a formidable breakfast and the one nut cake left on a plate.
There was an awkward moment of silence before Jaenelle leaned over and whispered something to Wilhelmina, Wilhelmina whispered something back, and the giggling started again.
Daemon reached for the nut cake, but, without looking, Jaenelle took it. She was just about to bite into it when Cook put the mug of coffee on the table and gasped.
"Now what's the Prince going to do for a breakfast, I ask you?" she demanded, but her eyes glowed with pride at the empty plates.
Jaenelle looked at the nut cake, reluctantly put it back on the plate, and edged the plate toward Daemon.
"It's all right," Daemon said mildly, looking directly at Cook. "I'm really not hungry."
Cook opened her mouth in astonishment, closed it again with a click of her teeth, and went back to her worktable, shaking her head.
He felt a warmth in his cheeks for telling so benign a white lie while those sapphire eyes studied him, so he concentrated on his coffee, avoiding her gaze.
Jaenelle broke the nut cake in half, handing him one half in a gesture that was no less a command for being unspoken, and began to eat the other half.
"You don't want to get yourself too stuffed during the day, you know," Cook said pleasantly as she puttered at her worktable. "We're having leg for dinner."
Daemon looked up, startled, as the nut cake Jaenelle was holding dropped to the table. He had never seen anyone go so deathly pale. Her eyes, enormous unblinking pools, stared straight ahead. Her throat worked convulsively.
Daemon pushed his chair back, ready to grab her and get her to the sink if she was going to be sick. "Don't you like lamb, Lady?" he asked softly.
She slowly turned her head toward him. He wanted to scream as his insides twisted at the pain and horror in her eyes. She blinked, fought for control. "L-lamb?"
Daemon gently closed one hand over hers. Her grip was painfully, surprisingly strong. Her eyes didn't waver from his, and he sensed that, with the physical link between them, he was completely vulnerable. There could be no dissembling, no white lies. "Lamb," he said reassuringly.
Jaenelle released his hand and looked away, and Daemon breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Jaenelle turned to Wilhelmina. "Do you have time for a walk in the garden before you go to Graff?"
Wilhelmina's eyes flicked toward Daemon. "Yes. I take a walk most mornings."
Jaenelle was out of her chair, into her coat, and out the door before Wilhelmina got her chair pushed back.
"I'll be along in a minute," Daemon said quietly.
Wilhelmina slipped into her coat and hurried after her sister.
Cook shook her head. "I don't understand it. Miss Jaenelle has always liked lamb."
But you didn't say lamb, you said leg, Daemon thought as he shrugged into his topcoat. What other kind of leg would they serve in that hospital that would horrify a young girl so?
"Here." Cook handed him another mug of coffee and three apples. "At least this will get you started. Put the apples in your pocket—and mind you keep one for yourself."
Daemon slipped the apples into his pocket. "You're a darling," he said as he gave Cook a quick kiss on the cheek. He turned away to hide his smile and also so she could tell herself—and believe it—that he hadn't seen how flustered and pleased he'd made her.
The girls were nowhere in sight. Unconcerned, he strolled along the garden paths, sipping his coffee. He knew where to find them.
They were in the alcove, sitting on the iron bench.
Wilhelmina was chattering as though the words couldn't tumble out fast enough and gesturing with an animation startlingly at odds with the quiet, sedate girl he was accustomed to. When he approached, the chattering stopped and two pairs of eyes studied him.
Daemon polished two apples on his coat sleeve and solemnly gave one to each of them. Then he walked to the other end of the alcove. He couldn't make himself turn his back on them, couldn't give up looking at her altogether, but he settled his face into a bland expression and began to eat the apple. After a moment, the girls began to eat too.
Two pairs of eyes. Wilhelmina's eyes held a look of uncertainty, caution, hesitation. But Jaenelle's . . . When he came into the alcove, those eyes had told him she'd already come to some decision about him. He found it unnerving that he didn't know what it was.
And her voice. He was far enough away not to catch the quiet words, but the cadence of her voice was lovely, lilting, murmuring surf on a beach at sunset. He frowned, puzzled. Then, too, there was her accent. There was a common language among the Blood, even though the Old Tongue was almost forgotten, as well as a native language among each race. So every people, even speaking the same language, had a distinctive accent—and hers was different from the general Chaillot accent. It was a swirling kind of thing, as if she'd learned various words in various places and had melded them together into a voice distinctly her own. A lovely voice. A voice that could wash over a man and heal deep wounds of the heart.
The sudden silence caught him unaware, and he turned toward them, one eyebrow raised in question. Wilhelmina was looking at Jaenelle. Jaenelle was looking intently in the direction of the house.
"Graff's looking for you," Jaenelle said. "You'd better hurry."
Wilhelmina jumped up from the bench and ran lightly down the path.
Jaenelle shifted position on the seat and studied the bed of witch blood. "Did you know that if you sing to them correctly, they'll tell you the names of the ones who are gone?" Her eyes slid from the bed to study his face.
Daemon walked up to her slowly. "No, I didn't know."
"Well, they can." A bitter smile flickered on her lips, and for a brief moment there was a savage look in her eyes. "As long as Chaillot stands above the sea, the ones they were planted for won't be forgotten. And someday the blood debt will be paid in full."
Then she was a young girl again, and Daemon told himself, insisted, that the midnight, sepulchral voice he'd just heard was the result of his own light-headedness from lack of sleep and food.
"Come," Jaenelle said, waiting for him to fall into step. They strolled up the garden paths toward the house.
"Don't you have lessons with Lady Graff too?"
Anguish and grim resignation washed the air around her. "No," she said in a carefully neutral voice. "Graff says I have no ability in the Craft and there's no point holding Wilhelmina back, since I can't seem to learn even the simpler lessons."
Daemon slid a narrow-eyed look toward her and said nothing for a moment. "Then what do you do while Wilhelmina is having lessons?"
"Oh, I . . . do other things." She stopped quickly, head cocked, listening. "Leland wants you."
Daemon made a rude noise and was rewarded with an astonished giggle. Her pale, frail-looking hand gripped his arm and pulled him forward. His heart thumped crazily as she tugged him up the path, laughing. They continued playing all the way to the house. She tugged, he protested. Finally she tugged him into the kitchen, through the kitchen, ignoring Cook's astonished gasp, and toward the doorway leading into the corridor.
Two feet from the doorway, Daemon dug in his heels.
Leland could go to Hell for all he cared. He wanted to stay with Jaenelle.
She pressed her hands against his back and propelled him through the doorway.
Landing on the other side, Daemon spun around and stared at a closed door. There hadn't been time for her to close a door. Come to think of it, he didn't remembe
r there being an actual door there.
Daemon stared a moment longer, his eyes molten gold, his lips fighting to break into a grin. He made another rude noise for the benefit of whoever might be listening on the other side of the door, shrugged out of his coat, and went to see what Leland wanted.
3—Terreille
Daemon undid the silk tie and loosened his collar. After the morning walk, he'd gone shopping with Leland. Until now he hadn't cared what she wore, except to acknowledge to himself that the frilliness of her clothes and the frothiness of her personality irritated him. Today he saw her as Jaenelle's mother, and he'd coaxed and cajoled her into a blue silk dress with simple lines that suited her trim body. She'd been different after that, more at ease. Even her voice didn't scrape his nerves as it usually did.
When Leland's shopping was done, he'd had the afternoon to himself. In any other court, he would have put the time to good use reviewing the papers his man of business sent to a post box in the city.
They would be amazed, he thought with a chilly smile, if they knew how much of their little island he owned.
Gambling at business was a mental game he excelled in. With the annual income he drew in from all corners of the Realm, he could have owned every plank of wood and every nail in Beldon Mor—and that didn't count the half dozen accounts in Hayll that Dorothea knew about and plundered occasionally when her lifestyle exceeded her own income. He always kept enough in those accounts to convince her that they were his total investments. For himself . . . Without the freedom to live as he chose, his personal indulgences were clothes and books, the books being the more personal acquisition since the clothes, like his body, were used to manipulate whomever he served.
In any other court, he would have put a free afternoon to good use. Today he'd been bored, bored, bored, chafing because he was forbidden the nursery wing and whatever was going on there.
The evening had been taken up with dinner and the theater. On the spur of the moment, Robert had decided to go with them, and Daemon had found the jockeying for seats in their private box and the tension between Philip and Robert more interesting than the play.
