Daemon followed Jaenelle into her sitting room, closed the door, then wrapped his arms around her.
“I love listening to you sing,” he said as he nuzzled her. “And so did everyone else tonight.”
“I was pleased that we had a full house.” She tipped her head to give him access to his favorite spot on her neck.
He brushed her hair back before giving that spot a delicate taste. After years of keeping her hair sleek-short or shaggy-short, depending on her mood, she had finally let it grow out. It wasn’t as long as it had been when she was twenty-five, but it now hid the spot between neck and shoulder that the Warlord Princes who served her found so intriguing.
“You always have a full house,” he said, feeling a swell of pride, among other things. She owned a music shop in Halaway and sang there twice a month, hosting Dhemlan musicians as well as musicians from many other Territories in Kaeleer—and beyond. “Since you included a couple of folk songs from Shalador Nehele, I was surprised you hadn’t asked Ranon to come here and play with you.”
Jaenelle gave him a wicked grin. “I knew better than to ask Ranon. I asked Cassidy and Shira if he could indulge me. They—and Vae—ganged up on him. He’ll be here for the next concert.”
Daemon laughed. He felt a keen sympathy for the Shalador Warlord Prince because he knew how it felt to be backed into a corner, but he laughed anyway.
Then Jaenelle kissed him with heat, and the parts of him that had swelled along with his pride responded with enthusiasm. But he eased back a little before he forgot what he’d wanted to discuss.
“You’re going to be thirty-seven this year,” he said.
“And that is significant because . . . ?”
“You’ve never been thirty-seven before. I thought we should do something special for your birthday.”
“We always do something special for my birthday.” She rocked her hips, brushing against him. “And some part of the ‘something special’ usually involves you being deliciously naked.”
The world narrowed to his need to make love with her—to play and seduce and savor until they were both boneless and satisfied. His arms tightened around her, and just as his mouth touched hers . . .
*Daemon!*
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*
He raised his head, snarling. *Go away!* One Sceltie might be cowed by the snarl traveling along the psychic link, especially when he made no effort to hide that he was aroused and wanted to mate. But cowing three of them? Wouldn’t happen.
*Daemon!*
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*
“I like Shuveen,” Daemon growled as he stepped away from Jaenelle, “but why can’t we send Boyd and Floyd back to Scelt for more . . . seasoning?”
“Ladvarian is staying here with us for a while and wanted those two with him for extra training.” She looked toward the door and frowned. “They seem upset.”
“They probably got in trouble with Mrs. Beale again.” And wouldn’t sorting that out be a fun way to end the evening?
*Daemon!* Shuveen called.
Boyd and Floyd began barking outside the door.
Swearing, Daemon strode to the door. He would tolerate them interrupting him when he was in his study working. After all, they were young, and living with him and Jaenelle was part of their training to become a working member of a household. But he wouldn’t tolerate their intrusion when he was about to make love to his wife, and that was something they also needed to learn.
Then Ladvarian passed through the wall and said, *Sylvia told Tildee to run.*
*Daemon!* Shuveen shouted.
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon,* Boyd and Floyd yapped.
Daemon rose to the killing edge in a heartbeat. Telling a Sceltie to run was the code Jaenelle had established between the Scelties living in Dhemlan and their human families. It meant life-threatening danger, and the dog’s task was to grab the special human friend—usually the child—and get them both out of harm’s way.
*Daemon!*
*daemondaemondaemondaemondaemon.*
He used Craft to open the door. Letting the young Scelties in was the only way to shut them up.
“Sylvia isn’t in Halaway,” Jaenelle said. “Or if she is, she’s not able to respond to a psychic call.”
*She is far,* Ladvarian said. *They are visiting. Tildee isn’t sure where.*
“Tildee has Mikal?” Jaenelle asked.
*Yes.*
*Far far far,* the youngsters yapped.
“How far can Tildee reach on a psychic thread?” Daemon asked Jaenelle.
“Not that far,” she replied.
Ladvarian said, *Tildee called. Other Scelties answered, then called to me.*
Daemon swore softly, straining to keep his temper leashed. Upsetting the youngsters wouldn’t get him the information he needed. If that call for help had traveled from Sceltie to Sceltie, Sylvia and her boys could be anywhere in Dhemlan. “Where were the other Scelties? Could you tell?”
All four Scelties spun to face the same direction.
“South,” Daemon snarled. He moved swiftly, out of the room and down the corridors. *Beale, I need a Coach on the landing web, and a driver to come with us.*
“If Tildee is running, someone is going to need a Healer,” Jaenelle said when she caught up to him.
*Rainier!* Daemon called.
*Prince?*
*Contact Sylvia’s Master of the Guard. I want to know exactly where she is and who is with her. There’s trouble. We need to find her.*
*Can you wait for Surreal?*
*Only if she can get to the Hall by the time you have the information. If not, you’ll have to tell her where to meet us.*
*We were on our way home, so I’ll stop at the Master’s house and she’ll come up to the Hall.*
When Daemon and Jaenelle reached the great hall, Beale and Holt were waiting, holding their winter coats.
“The driver will bring the Coach around in another minute or so,” Beale said. He helped Daemon into his coat while Holt helped Jaenelle into hers.
Daemon wanted to snap at the delay. There had been time to bring the Coach around to the landing web in front of the Hall. But he held his tongue. Once they caught the Winds, they would be out of touch, so they couldn’t leave until Rainier found out where Sylvia went.
“There are blankets and winter boots in the Coach,” Beale said. “Mrs. Beale is putting together a basket of food and jugs of water.”
We aren’t going on a picnic, Daemon thought. On the other hand, Tildee was running, and if whatever was happening around Sylvia was as bad as that indicated and Jaenelle was needed as a Healer, he wouldn’t want her eating or drinking anything that didn’t come from the Hall in case it had been tainted in some way.
*Prince?* Rainier called on a spear thread.
*Where is she?*
His temper turned viciously cold as Rainier gave him the information. As soon as Rainier broke the link, he turned to Jaenelle. “Let’s go. Lord Ladvarian, your presence is requested.”
The youngsters whined. Daemon pointed a finger at them, then at Holt and Beale. “You three tell them everything you know about this.” He looked at Beale. “Do whatever you can.”
Beale nodded.
Holt rushed to open the door. Daemon, Jaenelle, and Ladvarian walked out of the Hall.
Within moments of the driver setting the Coach on the landing web, a horse-drawn cab raced up to the Hall’s front doors. Surreal sprang from the cab and ran to the Coach. She didn’t say anything until they were inside and Daemon was settling into the other chair in the driver’s compartment.
*Jaenelle is going in as a Healer?* she asked on a Gray thread.
*Yes,* he replied.
*Then I’ll protect Jaenelle, and you and Ladvarian take care of the rest.*
*Agreed.*
Letting Jaenelle and Ladvarian explain the situation, Daemon lifted the Coach off the landing web, caught the Black Winds, and raced toward a village on the border of Little Terreille.
Sylvia fought her way up from a sludgy kind of sleep. Her legs were filled with a dull, draining ache, and her eyes wouldn’t open. She couldn’t remember where she was or why she felt so strange, but she knew her boys were in danger and needed her. She knew that much.
Then she remembered all of it—the attack, the pain, telling Tildee to run, and Beron coming to help her instead of running away.
Tildee would get Mikal to a safe hiding place. But Beron . . .
She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear. Her body didn’t work.
She’d died in those moments when her attacker flung her far into the garden. But that had been the body’s death. The Blood had the ability to survive beyond the physical death and become demon-dead.
How long did it usually take to make the transition? Minutes? Hours? How much time had passed?
Her vision was cloudy. Her hearing returned halfway. Was this normal?
That bastard who attacked her was demon-dead. That was why he smelled like rotting meat. Had she managed to damage him at all?
Her fingers twitched. A few moments later, she was able to fist both hands.
Blood was the living river, and through it flowed the power that made the Blood who and what they were—and it was that power that sustained the flesh after the transformation to demon-dead. Dead flesh wasn’t capable of renewing the power, which was why the demon-dead drank the blood of the living.
She had died before completely draining her Purple Dusk Jewel, but there wasn’t much power left, so her Birthright Summer-sky was sustaining her body right now. Once the power completely drained from both Jewels, the final death would occur, and her Self would become a whisper in the Darkness—and she wouldn’t be able to do anything to protect her family from a faceless enemy.
*Beron?* she whispered, not sure if the lack of response meant he was too far away to hear her or meant that he too was dead.
She felt too exposed to send out a psychic call for help that might alert the people in the house to her location. If they weren’t looking for her yet, they would be, for no other reason than to make sure she couldn’t tell anyone about what happened.
Sylvia pushed herself to a sitting position. She wasn’t sure how much power was needed to sustain dead flesh, but she didn’t think she had a lot of time.
If all she wanted to do was gasp out a last message, Halaway would be the prudent destination. But her boys had been lured to this estate in order to be that monster’s prey, so she needed the help of someone who knew the demon-dead and could help her survive long enough to destroy that nameless, faceless enemy.
She needed Saetan.
Using Craft, she floated through the gardens, keeping low to the ground, moving away from garbled sounds that might have been people shouting or dogs barking. When she found a tether line for the White Wind, she caught it and headed north, carefully shifting to a darker Wind whenever she could until she was riding the Purple Dusk Wind to the Keep.
Dropping from the Black Winds, Daemon aimed the Coach at the estate that was a couple of miles from a village on the border of Little Terreille. He didn’t intend to announce his presence until he was right on top of the problem, but since the District Queen who ruled this village didn’t live here, he reached for the males in her home village and let his voice thunder a message through a psychic spear thread: *Get here. Now.*
Once he landed the Coach and let his Black power roll over the land, they would know where to find him—and they would do everything they could to accommodate him, because they, and their Queen, wouldn’t want him looking in their direction. Not when his temper had turned cold and he was riding the killing edge.
The door to the driver’s compartment slid open. Jaenelle said, “We need to find Beron and Sylvia. Mikal should be safe with Tildee.”
*I will find Beron,* Ladvarian said. *I can run faster, and I can smell him, even if he is hiding.*
Daemon didn’t argue, since the dog was right. He wrapped the Coach in a Black sight shield as they approached the estate.
“Front door?” he asked, glancing back as Surreal moved up to join them. Both women now wore trousers, boots, and body-hugging tops that wouldn’t get in the way of fighting or healing.
“Front door,” Jaenelle agreed.
“I’m not sensing anyone in the front lower rooms,” Surreal said. “There are clusters of people in the upper rooms. We should go in fast and quiet.”
“Agreed,” Jaenelle said. “These people haven’t lived around kindred. They have no reason to think Tildee sent a message that could have reached us so fast. If Sylvia and Beron are being held, no one will be expecting us. Not this soon.”
