by Anne Bishop
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 here. 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 do 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 e
ffort, 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 candlelight.
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 once 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."
Jaenelle's head turned slowly until her eyes locked onto his face.
Kartane licked his lips. "I understand Sadi is your friend."
No answer.
"Did he show you how to be a good girl?"
No answer.
Kartane frowned. Had they given her something besides safframate! He'd had the shyest, most distraught girls crawling all over him, whimpering and begging, doing anything he wanted when they were dosed with that aphrodisiac. She shouldn't be able to sit on the bed like that. She shouldn't be able to sit still.
Kartane's frown smoothed into a smile. He had decided not to touch her body, but that didn't mean he couldn't touch her at all. He wore a Red Jewel. She wore nothing.
He sent a probing link to her mind, intending to at least force open the first barrier and find out what it was Sadi found so intriguing. The first barrier opened almost before he touched it, and he found . . .
Nothing.
Nothing but a black mist filled with lightning. Kartane had the sensation of standing on the edge of a deep chasm, not sure if stepping forward or back would plunge him into the abyss. He hung there, uncertain while the mist coiled around him, slithering along the psychic link toward his mind.
The mist wasn't empty.
Far, far below him, he sensed something dark, something terrifying and savage slowly turning toward him, drawn by his presence. He was caught in a beast's lair, blind and uncertain whether the attack would come from in front of him or behind. Whatever it was, it was slowly spiraling up out of the mist. If he actually saw it, he'd . . .
Kartane broke the link. His hands were in front of him, trying to hold an invisible something at bay. His shirt was soaked with sweat. Drawing in ragged breaths, he forced himself to lower his hands.
Jaenelle smiled.
Kartane leaped from the chair and pressed his back against the wall, too frightened to remember how to unlock the door.
"You're one of us," Jaenelle said in a hollow, pleased voice. "That's why you hate us so. You're one of us."
"I'm not!" He couldn't unlock the door without turning around, and he didn't dare turn around.
"You do to us what was done to you. She lets you be her tool. Even now, though you hate h
er as much as you fear her, you serve Dorothea."
"NO!"
"Her blood is the only blood that can pay that debt. But your debt is greater. You owe so many. In the end, you'll pay them all."
"What are you?" Kartane screamed.
Jaenelle stared at him for a long moment. "What I am," she said quietly in a voice that sang of the Darkness.
The locked door slid open.
Kartane bolted into the corridor.
The door slid shut.
Kartane leaned against the wall, shaking. Evil little bitch. Sadi's little whore. Whatever she was, if she joined with the Sadist . . .
Kartane straightened his clothes and smiled. He wouldn't soil himself with teaching that little bitch her rightful place.
But Greer. Greer had found his visit to Briarwood most gratifying, and he had asked Kartane if he'd noticed any unusual girls. This one should be unusual enough for his taste.
3—Terreille
Surreal knelt beside a tree at the back edge of Briarwood's snow-covered lawn. She had watched Kartane disappear behind some bushes and not come out, so she felt sure there must be a private entrance there.
Surreal frowned. The wide expanse of lawn offered no cover, and if someone came around the building instead of through that door, she might be discovered too soon. To the right of the lawn were the remains of a very large vegetable garden, but that, too, offered no cover. She could use a sight shield, but she wasn't that adept at creating one and holding it while moving. Surreal shivered, pulling her coat tighter around her as the night wind gusted for a moment.
Something gently brushed her shoulder.
Twisting around, she probed the shrub garden behind her. Finding nothing, she glanced at the tree before focusing her attention once more on the hidden door.
The tree had a perfect branch. With all these girls locked away here, the uncles could at least put up a swing.
The wind died. In the still night air, Surreal heard the click of a door being closed, and tensed. There was enough moonlight to see Kartane leaning against the side of the building for a moment before hurrying away.
