Daughter of the Blood

Lucivar still had an aura of youthful hope, before the years and court after court had turned a handsome, youthful face into one so like the Askavi mountains he loved—beautifully brutal, holding a trace of shadow even in the brightest sunlight.
    There was a shy tap on his door before Jaenelle slipped into the room. "Hello," she said, uncertain of her welcome.
    Daemon slipped an arm around her waist when she got close enough, Jaenelle rested both hands on his shoulder and leaned into him. The skin beneath her eyes looked bruised, and she trembled a little.
    Daemon frowned. "Are you cold?" When she shook her head, he pulled her closer. There wasn't any kind of outside heat that could thaw what chilled her, but after he'd been holding her for a while, the trembling stopped.
    He wondered if she'd told Saetan about the music room incident. He looked at her again and knew the answer. She hadn't told the Priest. She hadn't gone roaming for three days. She'd been locked in her cold misery, alone, wondering if there was any living thing that wouldn't fear her. He had come to the Black as a young man, but mature and ready, and even then living that far into the Darkness had been unsettling. For a child who had never known anything else, who had been traveling strange, lonely roads since her first conscious thought, who tried so hard to reach toward other people while suppressing what she was . . . But she couldn't suppress it. She would always shatter the illusion when challenged, would always reveal what lay beneath.
    Daemon intently studied the face that, in turn, studied the picture he still held. He sucked in his breath when he finally understood. He wore the Black; Jaenelle was the Black. But with her, the Black was not only dark, savage power, it was laughter and mischief and compassion and healing . . . and snowballs.
    Daemon kissed her hair and looked at the picture. "You would have gotten along well with him. He was always ready to get into trouble." He was rewarded with a ghost of a smile.
    She studied the picture. "Now he looks more like what he is." Her eyes narrowed, and then she shot an accusing look at him. "Wait a minute. You said he was your brother."
    "He was." Is. Would always be.
    "But he's Eyrien."
    "We had different mothers."
    There was a strange light in her eyes. "But the same father."
    He watched her juggling the mental puzzle pieces, saw the moment when they all clicked.
    "That explains a lot," she murmured, fluffing her hair. "He isn't dead, you know. The Ebon-gray is still in Terreille."
    Daemon blinked. "How—" He sputtered. "How do you know that?"
    "I looked. I didn't go anywhere," she added hurriedly. "I didn't break my promise."
    "Then how—" Daemon shook his head. "Forget I said that."
    "It's not like trying to sort through Opals or Red from a distance to find a particular person." Jaenelle had that harried, amused look. "Daemon, the only other Ebon-gray is Andulvar, and he doesn't live in Terreille anymore. Who else can it be?"
    Daemon sighed. He didn't understand, but he was relieved to know.
    "May I have a copy of that picture?"
    "Why?" Jaenelle gave him a look that made him wince. "All right."
    "And one of you, too?"
    "I don't have one of me."
    "We could get one."
    "Why—never mind. Is there a reason for this?"
    "Of course."
    "I don't suppose you'd tell me what it is?"
    Jaenelle raised one eyebrow. It was such a perfect imitation, Daemon choked back a laugh. Serves me right, he thought wryly. "All right," he said, ruefully shaking his head.
    "Soon?"
    "Yes, Lady, soon."
    Jaenelle skipped away, turned, gave him a feather-light kiss on the cheek, and was gone.
    Raising one eyebrow, Daemon looked at the closed door. He looked at the picture. "You stupid Prick," he said fondly. "Ah Lucivar, you would have had such fun with her."

3—Hell
    Saetan leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. "Why?"
    "Because I'd like one."
    "You said that before. Why?"
    Jaenelle loosely clasped her hands, looked at the ceiling, and said in a prim, authoritative voice, "'Tis not the season for questions."
    Saetan choked. When he could breathe again, he said, "Very well, witch-child. You'll have a picture."
    "Two?"
    Saetan gave her a long, hard look. She gave him her unsure-but-game smile. He sighed. There was one unshakable truth about Jaenelle: Sometimes it was better not to know. "Two."
    She pulled a chair up to the blackwood desk. Resting her elbows on the gleaming surface, her chin propped in her