Daughter of the Blood

silent.
    "Prince," Saetan said calmly. He watched Daemon fight for control, fight the searing rage in order to return the greeting.
    "High Lord," Daemon said through clenched teeth.
    Slowly approaching the table, aware of Daemon watching his every move, Saetan took off his cape, laying it across a chair. "Let's have a glass of wine, and then we'll talk."
    "I don't want any wine."
    "I do." Saetan got the wine and glasses. Settling into a chair, he opened the wine, poured two glasses, and waited.
    Daemon stepped forward, carefully placing his hands on the table.
    Dorothea was blind not to know what Daemon was, Saetan thought as he sipped the wine. Having expected to see them, Saetan found Daemon's long nails less disconcerting than his ringless fingers. If he could be this formidable without wearing a Jewel to help focus his strength . . .
    No wonder Cassandra had been terrified. Black Jewels or no, she was no match for this son of his.
    "Do you know where she is?" Daemon asked, obviously straining not to scream.
    Saetan's eyes narrowed. Fear. All that fury was covering an avalanche of fear. "Who?"
    Daemon sprang away from the table, swearing.
    When the torrent of expletives showed no sign of abating, Saetan said dryly, "Namesake, do you realize you're making this room quite uninhabitable?"
    " What? "Daemon pivoted and sprang back to the table.
    "Leash your rage, Prince," Saetan said quietly. "You sent for me, and I'm here." He looked over his shoulder toward the window. "However, the dawn is a few short hours away, and you can't afford to be here beyond that, can you?"
    As Daemon dropped into the chair across from him, Saetan handed him a glass of wine. Daemon drained it. Saetan refilled it. After refilling it for the third time, he said dryly, "From experience I can tell you that getting drunk doesn't lessen the fear. However, the agony of the hangover can do wonders for a man's perception."
    There was dismayed amusement in Daemon's eyes.
    "Bluntly put, my fine young Prince, this is obviously the first time our fair-haired Lady has scared the shit out of you."
    Daemon frowned at the empty wine bottle, found a full one in the cupboard, and refilled both glasses. "Not the first time," he growled.
    Saetan chuckled. "But it is a matter of degree, yes?"
    There was a hint of warmth in Daemon's reluctant smile. "Yes."
    "And this time is bad."
    Daemon closed his eyes. "Yes."
    Saetan sighed. "Start at the beginning and let's see if we can untangle this."
    "She's not at her family's estate."
    "It is the Winsol season. Could her . . . family"—Saetan choked on the word—"have left her with friends to visit?"
    Daemon shook his head. " Something's there, but it isn't Jaenelle. It looks like her, talks like her, plays the obedient daughter." Daemon looked at Saetan, his eyes haunted. "But what makes Jaenelle Jaenelle isn't there." He laughed scornfully. "Her family has been most gratified that she's been behaving so well and not embarrassing them when the girls are presented to guests." He played with his wineglass. "I'm afraid something has happened to her."
    "Unlikely." Fascinated, Saetan watched the anger melt from Daemon's face. He liked the man he saw beneath it.
    "How can you be sure?" Daemon asked hopefully. "Have you seen something like that before?"
    "Not quite like that, no."
    "Then how—"
    "Because, namesake, what you're describing is called a shadow, but there's no one in any of the Realms, including me, who has the Craft to create a shadow that's so lifelike—except Jaenelle."
    Daemon sipped his wine and brooded for a minute. "What, exactly, is a shadow?"
    "Basically, a shadow is an illusion, a recreation of an object's physical form." Saetan looked pointedly at Daemon, who shrank in his chair just a little. "Some children have been known to create a shadow in order to appear to be asleep in their beds while they are really off having adventures that, if discovered, would prevent them from comfortably sitting down for a week." He saw the briefest flicker of memory in Daemon's eyes and the beginning of a wry smile. "That's a first-stage shadow and is stationary. A second-stage shadow can move around, but it has to be manipulated like a puppet. That kind of shadow looks solid but can't be felt, doesn't have tactile capabilities. The third-stage shadow, which is the strongest I've ever heard of being achieved, has one-way tactile ability. It can touch but can't be touched. However, it, too, must be