Daughter of the Blood (The Black Jewels #1)

Daughter of the Blood (The Black Jewels #1) Page 74

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 Craft 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!"