Daughter of the Blood

hair. That's the only definite feature. Probably has a strange aura—"
    Sadi laughed, an unnerving sound. He looked highly amused, but there was something queer about the glitter in his eyes. "My dear Lord Greer, you're talking about half the females living on this clump of rock. Strange aura? Compared to what? High-strung eccentricity is a prepubescent epidemic here. You won't find an aristo family on the whole damn island that doesn't have at least one daughter with a 'strange aura.' What do you expect me to do? Approach each one while her chaperon looks on and ask her if she's screwing a Hayllian from one of the Hundred Families?" He laughed again.
    Greer ground his teeth. "Then you're refusing the offer?"
    "No, Greer, I'm simply telling you that without more information, the friend's consort is going to be playing with his toy for a very long time. So unless you can tell me more than that, it isn't worth the effort." Sadi stood up and tugged his jacket sleeves down over his cuffs. "The offer is intriguing, however, and if I stumble across a golden-haired girl with a taste for Hayllians, I'll give her a very good look. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm overdue at a dressmaker's shop where my tasteful opinions are required." He bowed mockingly and left.
    Greer counted to ten before leaping out of the chair and stumbling to the door on his numb feet. He clawed at the door, the knob so cold it almost stuck to his skin. He finally pulled the door open, stepped into the hallway—and sagged against the wall.
    The hallway felt like an oven.
    Daemon stared at the bed of witchblood in the alcove. Unable to sleep, he'd gone for a walk and had ended up here. The night air was cold and he'd forgotten his topcoat, but it felt good to be numbed by a cold that wasn't coming from within.
    Dorothea was looking for Jaenelle. It didn't matter if she was looking for her own reasons or at someone else's behest. Dorothea always tried to destroy strong young witches who might one day rival her power. Once she found out who and what Jaenelle was, she would use every weapon at her disposal to destroy the girl.
    Greer was sniffing around for information, which meant Dorothea wasn't certain that Jaenelle lived in Beldon Mor. But there was no reason to think that Greer's visit would be brief, and if he stayed around long enough, sooner or later he would overhear someone talking about Leland Benedict's eccentric, golden-haired daughter. And then?
    Have you taught her how to kill, Priest? Can you teach her such a thing? She's so wise in her innocence, so innocent in her wisdom.
    He should have killed Greer instead of just crippling the hand that had slit Titian's throat. But the timing had been wrong, and even if she had had no proof, Dorothea would have suspected him. An oversight he still couldn't correct without drawing too much attention to this house. There was no place he could hide Jaenelle that would be safe enough, not with her propensity to wander, and he wasn't willing to give her to the Priest yet, even if she would go and stay away. Not yet.
    Daemon shook his head. The night was fleeing, and since he'd reached the alcove, he'd known what he had to do. If the offer had been made for him alone, there would have been no question about his answer. But it hadn't been made for him alone. He took a deep breath and sent a spear thread along the Ebon-gray.
    "Prick? Prick, can you hear me?"
    There was the sudden awareness of someone waking instantly from a light sleep. "Bastard?" A stirring, a focusing. "Bastard, what—"
    "Listen. There's not much time. Greer made me an offer today."
    " Greer? "Icy wariness. "Why?"
    "A friend of Dorothea's wants a favor." Daemon swallowed hard and shut his eyes tight. "One hundred years out of court service . . . for both of us . . . if I kill a child."
    The next words floated into Daemon's mind, venomously sweet. "Any child? Or one in particular?"
    Daemon looked down. His right hand was rubbing the scar on his left wrist. "A very special child. An extraordinary child."
    "And your answer was?"
    "I told you. The offer wasn't for me al—"
    "Where are you?"
    "Chaillot"
    A hiss of fury. "Listen to me, you son of a whoring bitch. If you accept that offer for my sake, the first thing I'll do is kill you."
    The first thing I'd do is let you. Daemon sank to his knees, shaking with relief. "Thank you."
    "What?" The waves of fury rolling through the thread stopped.
    "Thank you. I . . . had hoped . . . that would be