by Anne Bishop
"Damn!" The word exploded out with her breath as she quickly Gray-locked the door. Pulling Titian's knife from Greer's heart, Surreal hesitated for just a moment, then shook her head. She didn't have the minute it would take. She cut the cords that bound Jaenelle's ankles and wrists to the bed, wrapped the girl in the bloody sheet, lifted the bundle against her, and, Gray shielding herself and her precious burden, made the pass through the walls.
Once outside, Surreal ran. When they finally broke the Gray lock and found Greer, they would be pouring out of the doors in pursuit. And following the blood scent, they would be able to trace her.
There was only one place to go, and once there, she would need help.
Putting her heart into it, Surreal sent a summons along the Gray.
"Sadi!"
No answer.
"Sadi!"
4—Hell
"NO!"
Saetan's roar thundered through the cavern, drowning out the sound of feet racing down the stairs.
"SaDiablo!" Andulvar yelled as he leaped into the cavern. "We heard a scream. What's—"
Saetan pivoted, teeth bared, spearing Draca with eyes filled with cold rage. "And now?" he said too softly.
"We'll ride the Winds," Prothvar said, pulling out his knife.
"No time," Mephis countered. "It'll be too late."
"Draca," Geoffrey said.
Draca never blinked, never flinched from Saetan's glazed stare.
"Saetan—" Andulvar began.
Draca closed her eyes.
A voice filled their minds, a rumble as if the Keep itself sighed.
A male voice.
"Sspear to sspear, High Lord. That iss the only way now. Her blood runss. If sshe diess now—"
"She'll walk among the cildru dyathe. "
So much sorrow in that voice. "Dreamss made flessh do not become cildru dyathe, High Lord. Sshe will be losst to uss."
"Who are you to say this to me?" Saetan snarled.
"Lorn."
Saetan's heart stopped for a beat.
"You have the courage, High Lord, to do what you musst do. The other male will be your insstrument."
The sighing rumble faded.
The cavern was very still.
Turning carefully, Saetan once more faced the red-misted tether line.
And the Blood shall sing to the Blood.
Don't think. Be an instrument.
Everything has a price.
Locked in his cold, still rage, Saetan slowly drew on the power in the web, the power in his Jewels, and the power in himself until he had formed a three-edged psychic spear. With his eyes and will fixed on the Jewel chip, he sent a single, thundering summons.
"SADI!"
5—Terreille
"Sadi!"
"Sadi!"
"SADI!"
Daemon jerked awake, head pounding, heart pounding, body throbbing. Groaning, he rubbed his fist back and forth across his forehead.
And remembered.
"Sadi, please."
Daemon frowned. Even that movement hurt. "Surreal?"
A gasping sob. "Hurry. To the Altar."
"Surreal, what—"
"She's bleeding! "
He didn't remember making the pass. One moment he was cramped in the underground rectangle, the next he was braced against the tree, eyes closed, waiting for the world to stop spinning. "Surreal, get to the Altar. Now."
"The uncles will be coming after us."
The Sadist bared his teeth in a vicious smile. "Let them come."
The link broke. Surreal was already riding the Winds to Cassandra's Altar.
Daemon clung to the tree. His body could give him nothing. The Black Jewels were still drained and could give him nothing. Needing strength, he greedily drained the reserve power in his Birthright Red.
"SADI!"
The power behind that thundering voice hit his Red strength and absorbed it as easily as a lake absorbs a pail of water.
Daemon clamped his hands over his head and fell to his knees. That power was tightening like a band of iron inside his head, threatening to smash his inner barriers. Snarling, he lashed back with the little strength he had left.
"Daemon."
Glacial rage waited for him just outside the first barrier, but now he recognized the voice.
"Priest?" Daemon let out a gasp of relief. "Father, pull back a little. I can't . . . It's too strong."
The power pulled back—a little.
"You are my instrument."
"No."
The psychic band tightened.
"I serve no one but Witch. Not even you, Priest," Daemon snarled.
The band loosened, became a caress. "I, too, serve her, Prince. That's why I need you. Her blood runs."
Daemon fought to stand up, fought to breathe. "I know. She's being taken to Cassandra's Altar." He hurt. Hell's fire, how he hurt.
"Let me in, namesake. I won't harm you."
Daemon hesitated, then opened himself fully. He clenched his teeth to keep from screaming as the icy rage swept into his mind. His vision doubled. He felt the tree against his back. He also felt cold stone beneath bare feet.
The stone faded, but not completely. He slowly opened and closed his hand. It felt as though he were wearing a glove beneath his skin. Then that too faded, but not completely.
"You're controlling my body," Daemon said with a trace of bitterness.
"Not controlling. By joining this way, my strength will be a well for you to tap and, in turn, I will be able to see and understand what we must do to help her."
Daemon pushed himself away from the tree. He swayed, but another pair of legs held firm. Taking a deep breath, he caught the Black Wind and hurled himself toward Cassandra's Altar.
Daemon hurried through the ruins of the Sanctuary's outer rooms. The footsteps he'd heard a moment ago stopped. Now an angry Gray wall blocked the corridor that led into the labyrinth of inner rooms.
"Surreal?" Daemon called softly.
A sob answered him. The Gray wall dropped.
Daemon ran toward her. Surreal waited for him, tears streaming down her face.
"I wasn't in time," she sobbed as Daemon took the sheet-wrapped bundle from her shaking arms and held it close to his chest. "I wasn't in time."
Daemon turned back the way he'd come. "Cassandra must have a room here somewh—"
"Go to the Altar, namesake."
"She needs—"
"The Altar."
Daemon turned again, racing toward the Altar that lay in the center of the Sanctuary. Surreal ran ahead to push open the Altar room's stiff wrought-iron gate. Daemon rushed in and carefully laid Jaenelle on the Altar.
"We need some light," he said, desperation making his voice harsh.
Witchlight bloomed overhead.
Cassandra stood behind the Altar. Her Black Jewels glowed. Her emerald eyes stabbed at him.
Daemon looked down and saw the blood on his shirt.
"Courage, namesake."
"So," Cassandra said quietly, her eyes never leaving Daemon's face, "you're both here."
Daemon nodded as he swiftly unwrapped the sheet.
Cassandra clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream.
Blood gushed between Jaenelle's legs. Daemon's hands were slick with it as his fingers rested at the junction of her thighs and became a channel for a delicate tendril of power and the little healing Craft he knew. He searched, probed.
Witches bled more on their Virgin Night than other women, and dark-Jeweled witches most of all. They paid for their strength with moments of fragility, moments when the balance of power shifted to the male's advantage and left them vulnerable.
But even that didn't explain this much blood.
Searching, probing.
Icy shock ran through him when he found the answer. Glacial rage followed.
"They used something to tear her open. The bastards tore her open. "He slid his hands over her torso, over the cuts and bruises. "How much healing C
raft do you know?" he snapped at Saetan.
"I have a great deal of knowledge, but even less of the healing gift than you. It's not enough, Daemon."
"Then who has enough?"
Jaenelle's blank eyes stared at him.
Daemon reached to cup her face in his hands.
"No," Cassandra said, coming around the Altar. "Let me. A Sister won't be a threat."
Daemon hated her for saying it. Hated her even more because, right now, it was true.
"Let her try, namesake," Saetan said, forcing Daemon to step back.
Cassandra pressed her fingers against Jaenelle's temples and stared into the unblinking eyes. After a minute, she stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself, as if needing comfort. Her lips quivered. "She's out of reach," she said in a hoarse, defeated whisper.
It didn't mean anything. Jaenelle was stronger than the rest of them. She could descend further. It didn't mean anything.
But Tersa's vision of the shattered crystal chalice mocked him. You know, it said. You know why she doesn't answer.
"No." Daemon wasn't sure if the denial was his or Saetan's.
Surreal stepped forward. Her face was ashen, but her gold-green eyes flashed with determination. "The girl Rose said they'd given her too much medicine and she couldn't get out of the misty place. Probably a vile mixture of safframate and a sedative."
Saetan's voice sounded tightly calm. "I can't sense a link between her body and her Self. It's either very faint or she's severed it completely. If we don't draw her back now, we'll lose her."
"You mean I'll lose her," Daemon snapped at him. "If her body dies, you'll still have her, won't you?"
He felt heart-tearing pain come through the link.
"No," Saetan whispered. "I was told by one who would know that dreams made flesh don't become cildru dyathe, "
Daemon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "How deep is your well, Priest?"
"I don't know."
"Then let's find out." Daemon turned to Surreal. "Go out. Keep watch. Those sons of whoring bitches will be coming soon. Buy us some time, Surreal."
Surreal glanced at the Altar. "I'll keep them out until I hear from you." She slipped through the wrought-iron gate and disappeared into the labyrinth of dark corridors.
"Go with her," Daemon said to Cassandra. "This is private."
Before she could protest, Saetan said, "Go, Lady."
Daemon waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he stretched out on the Altar and took Jaenelle in his arms.
The power from Saetan flowed into him, wrapped around him.
"Keep the descent at a steady pace," Saetan warned.
So easy to slip into that abandoned body, so easy to glide down through all that emptiness until he reached the depth of his own inner web. He held there, trying to probe further down.
Far, far, far below him, a flash of lightning lit up a swirling black mist.
"Jaenelle!" Daemon shouted. "Jaenelle!"
No answer.
Spinning out the link to make it thinner and longer, Daemon eased past the depth of his inner web.
"Daemon!" Saetan's worry vibrated through the link.
A little deeper. A little deeper.
He felt the pressure now, but kept spinning out the link.
Down down down.
Like diving too deep in water, the abyss pressed against him, pressed against his mind. That inner core of Self could go only so deep. Any deeper and the very power that made the Blood the Blood would try to pour into a vessel too small to hold it, crushing the spirit, shattering the mind.
Down down down. Gliding through the emptiness, spinning out the link between him and Saetan thinner and thinner.
"Daemon!" Saetan's voice was a hoarse, distant thunder. "You're too deep. Pull up, Daemon. Pull up!"
A tiny psychic feather rose out of the mist that was still far below him, brushed against him and withdrew, startled and puzzled.
"Jaenelle!" Daemon shouted. When he got no answer, he sent on a spear thread. "I felt her, Priest! I felt her!"
He also felt agony through the link and realized he was being pulled upward.
"No!" he yelled, fighting the upward pull."NO!"
The link snapped.
No longer tied to the power Saetan was channeling, he became an empty vessel that the power in the abyss rushed to fill. Too much. Too fast. Too strong.
He screamed as his mind ripped, tore, shattered.
Shattering and shattering, he fell, screaming, and disappeared into the lightning-streaked black mist.
Surreal put the finishing touches on the spell she was weaving across a corridor that led to the inner rooms and toyed with the idea of shoving Cassandra into it just to see what would happen. She didn't have anything against the woman personally, but that sulky temper and the dagger glances Cassandra kept throwing back toward the Altar room were fraying nerves already stretched a little too thin.
She stepped back and rubbed her hands against her trouser seat. Calling in a black cigarette, she lit it with a little tongue of witchfire, took a puff, and then offered it to Cassandra, who just shook her head and glared.
"What are they trying to do that it has to be private?" Cassandra said for the tenth time in the past few minutes.
"Back off, sugar," Surreal snapped. "That smart-ass remark about her trusting you more than him was enough reason for him to toss you out the door."
"It's true," Cassandra said angrily. "A Sister—"
"Sister, shit. And I don't hear you bitching about the other one I caught a whiff of."
"I trust the Priest."
Surreal puffed on the cigarette. So that was the Priest. Not a male she'd care to tangle with. Then again, Sadi wasn't a male she cared to tangle with either.
She snubbed out the cigarette and vanished it. "Come on, sugar. Let's create a few more surprises for Briarwood's darling uncles."
Cassandra eyed the corridor. "What is it?"
"A death spell." A vicious gleam filled Surreal's eyes. "First one who walks through that—it'll burst his heart, burst his balls, and finish the kill with a blast of the Gray. The spell gets sucked into the body so there's nothing anyone can trace. I usually add a timing spell to it, but we want to hit them fast and dirty."
Cassandra looked shocked. "Where did you learn to build something like that?"
Surreal shook her head and headed for another corridor to set another trap. This wasn't the time to tell Cassandra that Sadi had taught her that particular little spell. Especially when she kept wishing he'd taught it to Jaenelle.
Daemon slowly opened his eyes.
He knew he was lying on his back. He knew he couldn't move. He also knew he was naked. Why was he naked?
Mist swirled around him, teasing him, offering him no landmarks. Not that he expected to find anything familiar, but even the mind had landmarks. Except this was Jaenelle's mind, not his, in a place too deep for the rest of the Blood to reach.
He remembered feeling a hint of her as he probed the abyss, remembered diving, falling. Shattering.
Something moved in the mist. He heard a quiet clink clink, like glass tapping glass.
He turned his head toward the sound, feeling as if it took all of his strength to do so little.
"Don't move," said a lilting, lyrical voice that also contained caverns and midnight skies.
The mist drew back enough for him to see her standing next to slabs of stone piled up to form a makeshift altar.
Shock rippled through him. The crystal shards on the altar rattled in response.
"Don't move," she said, sounding testy as she carefully fitted another shard of the shattered chalice into place.
It was Jaenelle's voice, but . . .
She was medium height, slender, and fair-skinned. Her gold mane—not quite hair and not quite fur—was brushed up and back from her exotic face and didn't hide the delicately pointed ears. In the center of her forehead was a tiny, spiral horn. A narrow strip of gold fur traced
her spine, ending in a small gold and white fawn tail that flicked over her bare buttocks. The legs were human and shapely but changed below the calf. Instead of feet, she had dainty horse's hooves. Her human hands had sheathed claws like a cat's. As she shifted position to slip another shard into place, he saw the small, round breasts, the feminine curve of waist and hips, the dark-gold triangle of hair between her legs.
Who . . . ?
But he knew. Even before she walked over and looked at him, even before he saw the feral intelligence in those ancient, haunted sapphire eyes, he knew.
Terrifying and beautiful. Human and Other. Gentle and violent. Innocent and wise.
"I am Witch," she said, a small, defiant quiver in her voice.
"I know." His voice had a seductive throb in it, a hunger he couldn't control or mask.
She looked at him curiously, then shrugged and returned to the altar. "You shattered the chalice. That's why you can't move yet."
He tried to raise his head and blacked out. By the time he could focus again, she had enough of the chalice pieced together for him to realize it wasn't the same one Tersa had shown him.
"That's not your chalice," he shouted happily, too relieved to care that he'd startled her until she bared her teeth and snarled at him.
"No, you silly stubborn male, it's yours. "
That sobered him a little, but her response sounded so much like Jaenelle the child, he didn't care about that either.
Taking it slow, he propped himself up on one elbow. "Then your chalice didn't shatter."
She selected another piece, fit it into place. Her eyes filled with desperation and her voice became too quiet. "It shattered."
Daemon lay down and closed his eyes. It took him a long moment to gather the courage to ask, "Can you repair it?"
She didn't answer.
He drifted after that. Minutes, years, what did it matter? Images swirled behind his closed eyes. Bodies of flesh and bone and blood. Webs that marked the inner boundaries. Crystal chalices that held the mind. Jewels for power. The images swirled and shifted, over and over. When they finally came to rest, they formed the Blood's four-sided triangle. Three sides—body, chalice, and Jewels—surrounding the fourth side, the Self, the spirit that binds the other three.
The images swirled again, became mist. He felt something settle into place inside him as the mist reformed into a crystal chalice, its shattered pieces carefully fitted together. Black mist filled in the cracks between each piece, as well as the places where tiny pieces were missing.
