Daughter of the Blood

never do." He looked at the sun beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. "I don't think this snow's going to last. Feels like it's warming up."
    Jaenelle shook her head and took another bite. "No," she said, swallowing. "It'll go before it melts. I can't hold it very long." She frowned and fluffed her hair as she studied the snow-Graff. "Something's missing. Something I don't know about yet that would be able to hold it longer—"
    That you can do it at all is beyond what most achieve, Lady.
    "—would be able to weave it—"
    Daemon shivered. He tossed the apple core toward the bushes for the birds to find. "Don't think of it," he said, not caring that his voice sounded harsh.
    She looked at him, surprised.
    "Don't think about experimenting with dream weaving without being instructed by someone who can do it well." He put his hands on her shoulders and squeezed gently. "Weaving a dream web can be very dangerous. Black Widows don't learn how to do it until the second stage of their training because it's so easy to become ensnared in the web." He held her at arm's length, searching her face. "Promise me, please, that you won't try to do this by yourself. That you'll get the very best there is to train you." Because I couldn't bear it if there was only a blank-eyed, empty shell to love and I knew you were lost somewhere beyond reach, beyond return.
    Daemon's hands tightened on her shoulders. Her thoughtful expression frightened him.
    "Yes," she said at last. "You're right, of course. If I'm going to learn, I should ask the ones who were born to it to teach me." She studied the snow-Graff. "See? Already it goes."
    The snow was starting to lose its shape, to sift into a fluffy pile in the center of the alcove.
    Together they air-walked to the main garden path. Dropping into the snow, Jaenelle trudged away from the house for a few feet, turned, and trudged back, kicking up the snow, leaving a very clear trail. Daemon looked back at the unmarked path, considered what the consequences would be if the others found out that Jaenelle could move about without leaving a trace, lowered himself to the ground, and trudged behind her, back to the house.

4—Terreille
    Daemon stormed into his room, slammed the door, stripped off his clothes, showered, and stormed back into the bedroom.
    Bitch. Stupid, mewling bitch! How dare she? How dare she?
    Leland's words burned through him. We're having a gathering this evening, just a few of my friends. You'll be serving us, of course, so I expect you to dress appropriately.
    The cold swept over him, crusting him with glacial calm. He took a deep breath and smiled.
    If the bitch wanted a whore tonight, he'd give her a whore.
    Lifting one hand, Daemon called in two private trunks. Wherever he traveled, the trunks that contained his clothes and "personal" effects were always openly displayed and the contents could be examined by any Queen or Steward who chose to rummage through his things. Those were the only ones he ever acknowledged. The private trunks contained the items that were, in some way, of value to him.
    One of those trunks was half empty and held personal mementos, a testimony to the paucity of his life. It also contained the locked, velvet-lined cases that held his Jewels—the Birthright Red and the cold, glorious Black. The other trunk contained several outfits that he sneeringly referred to as "whore's clothes"—costumes from a dozen different cultures, designed to titillate the female senses.
    He opened the costume trunk and examined the contents. Yes, that outfit would do very nicely. He removed a pair of black leather pants, the leather so soft and cut so well they fit like a second skin. He pulled them on, adjusting the bulge in the front to best advantage. Next came black, ankle-high leather boots with a high stacked heel. The perfectly tailored white silk shirt formed a slashing V  from his neck to his waist, where two pearl buttons held it closed, and had billowing, tight-cuffed sleeves. Next he took out the paint pots, and with cold, cruel deliberation, applied subtle color to his cheeks, eyes, and lips. It was done with such skill that it made him look androgynous and yet more savagely male, an unsettling blend. Returning the paint pots to the trunks, he took a small gold hoop from its box and slipped it into his ear. He brushed his hair and used Craft to set it in a rakishly disheveled style. Last was a black felt hat with a black leather band and a large white