Daughter of the Blood

"And I don't think he'd approve."
    "You mean Philip wouldn't approve of his teaching you?"
    "No. He wouldn't approve of Philip." She shook her head. "He wouldn't approve at all."
    Nor do I, my Lady. Nor do I. As Daemon thought about the little he knew about Guardians and the stories he'd heard or read about the High Lord of Hell, he saw Jaenelle swallow, and his own throat tightened. Guardians. The living dead. They drank . . . "He doesn't hurt you, does he?" he asked harshly, instantly regretting the words.
    Jaenelle twisted to face him, her eyes skimmed with icy anger.
    Daemon immediately retreated, trying to find a way to soften what he'd just said. "I mean . . . does he scold you if you don't get a lesson right? The way Graff does?"
    The anger left her eyes, but she was still wary. "No, he doesn't scold." She repositioned herself until she was sitting back on her heels. "Well, most of the time he doesn't. Only once, really, but that was because I scared them and it was really Prothvar's fault because I asked him to teach me and he wouldn't teach me he just laughed and said I couldn't but I knew I could so I did to show him I could but he didn't know I could and then he got scared and they got angry and that's when I got scolded. But it was really Prothvar's fault." Her eyes were full of an appeal for him to be on her side.
    Daemon felt dizzied by the explanation and grasped the one thing he could pull out. "Who's Prothvar?"
    "Andulvar's grandson."
    Daemon was getting a headache. He'd spent too many nights getting into heated but friendly arguments with Lucivar over who was the most powerful Warlord Prince in the history of the Blood not to know who Andulvar was. Mother Night, he thought as he surreptitiously rubbed his aching temple, how many of the dead did she know? "I agree," he said decisively. "I think Prothvar was at fault."
    Jaenelle blinked. She grinned. "That's what I think too." She wrinkled her nose. "Prothvar didn't think so. He still doesn't."
    Daemon shrugged. "He's Eyrien. Eyriens are stubborn."
    Jaenelle giggled and snuggled up next to him, Daemon slowly lowered his arm until his hand lightly caressed her shoulder, and sighed, content.
    He would have to make peace with the Priest. He wouldn't step aside, but he didn't want her trapped in the middle of that kind of rivalry. Besides, the High Lord was just a rival, not an enemy. She might need him too.
    "Your mentor is called the Priest, is he not?" Daemon asked in a sleepy, silky voice.
    Jaenelle tensed but didn't pull away. Finally she nodded.
    "When you next see him, would you tell him I send my regards?"
    Jaenelle's head shot up so fast that Daemon's teeth snapped together, just missing his tongue. "You know the Priest?"
    "We were briefly acquainted . . . a long time ago," Daemon said as his fingers became entangled in her hair.
    Jaenelle snuggled closer, hiding a huge yawn with both hands. "I'll remember," she promised sleepily.
    Daemon kissed the top of her head, reluctantly drew her to her feet, put the book back on the shelf, and led her out of the library. He pointed her toward the stairs that would take her up to her bedroom on the floor above. "Go to bed—and sleep." He tried to sound stern, but even to his own ears it came out lovingly exasperated.
    "You sound like him sometimes," Jaenelle grumbled. She climbed the stairs and disappeared.
    Daemon closed his eyes. Liar. Silky, court-trained liar. He didn't want to smooth away a rivalry. That wasn't why he sent the message. He wanted—secondhand and only for an instant—he wanted to force Saetan to acknowledge his son.
    But what kind of message would the Priest send in return, if he cared to send any at all?

7—Terreille
    Greer stood before the two women seated by the fire, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. He was the High Priestess of Hayll's most trusted servant, her favorite assassin, her caretaker of meddlesome, messy details. This assignment was an exquisite reward for his loyalty.
    "You understand what you're to do?"
    Greer turned slightly toward the one called the Dark Priestess. Until tonight he had never understood why his powerful Priestess should feel so compelled to make accommodations for this mysterious "adviser." Now he understood. She had the scent of the graveyard about her, and her keen malevolence frightened and excited him. He was also aware that the "wine" she drank came from a different kind of vineyard.
    "I understand and am honored that you have chosen