Daughter of the Blood

Kartane was there and would no doubt send this tale winging back to Hayll! Of course Hayll's High Priestess would be only too happy to send additional assistance, until Chaillot became a mere puppet dancing while Dorothea held the strings.
    Sadi. She would have to send him back to—
    Alexandra's bedroom door clicked as the lock slipped back into place. She whirled, her right hand raised, but before she could use the controlling ring she lay sprawled on the floor, one side of her face ablaze from the blow of a phantom hand.
    Pushing herself into a sitting position, Alexandra stared at Daemon, leaning so casually against the door.
    "My dear," he said in a gentle voice so full of murderous rage it terrified her worse than the most violent shout, "if you ever use the Ring on me again, I'll decorate the walls with your brains."
    "If I use the Ring—"
    Daemon laughed. It was an eerie sound—hollow, malevolent, cold. "I can survive a great deal of pain. Can you?" He smiled a brutal smile. "Shall we put it to the test? Your strength against mine? Your ability to withstand what I'll do to your body—not to mention your mind—while you try to hold me off with that pathetic piece of metal?" He walked toward her. "The trust women have in the Ring is so misplaced. Haven't you learned that much from the stories you've heard about me?"
    "What do you want?" Alexandra tried to scoot backward, but Daemon stepped on her dressing gown, pinning her to the floor.
    "What I've wanted since I came here. What I've always wanted. And you're going to get her back for me. Tonight."
    "I don't know what—"
    "You put her back in that . . . place, didn't you, Alexandra? You put her back in that nightmare."
    "She's ill!" Alexandra protested. "She's—"
    "She isn't ill," Daemon snarled. "She was never ill. And you know it. Now you're going to get her out of there." He smiled. "If you don't get her back, I will. But if I have to do it, I'll flood the streets of Beldon Mor with blood before I'm through, and you, my dear, will be one of the corpses washed into the sewer. Get her out of Briarwood, Alexandra. After that, you won't have to trouble yourself with her. I'll take care of her."
    "Take care of her?" Alexandra spat. "You mean twist her, use her for your own perverse needs. Is that why you walk with her in the farthest parts of the garden? So you can fondle . . ." Alexandra choked, but the words kept tumbling out. "No wonder you can't act like a man around a real woman. You need to force children—"
    "Before you begin accusing me, look to your own house, Lady." Daemon pulled her to her feet, one hand holding her wrists behind her back while the other tangled in her hair, pulling her head up.
    "Get her out, Alexandra," he said too softly. "Get her out before the sun rises."
    "I can't!" Alexandra cried. "Dr. Carvay is the head of Briarwood. He'll have to sign the release papers. So will Robert."
    "You put her in there."
    "With Robert! Besides, she was so distraught, she was heavily sedated and shouldn't be moved."
    "How long?" Daemon snapped, letting her fall to the floor.
    "What?" She felt weak and helpless with him towering over her.
    "How long before you can bring her back here?"
    Time. She needed a little time. "Tomorrow afternoon."
    When he was silent for so long, she dared to look up, but quickly looked away. She flinched when he squatted beside her.
    "Listen to me, Alexandra, and listen well. If Jaenelle isn't back here, unharmed, by tomorrow afternoon, you, my dear, will live long enough to regret betraying me."
    Alexandra sank full length on the floor, covering her head with her hands. She couldn't stop seeing that look in his eyes, and she would go mad if she couldn't stop seeing that look in his eyes. Even when she heard him cross the room, heard the door open and quietly click shut, she was still too frightened to move.
    It was so dark.
    Alexandra woke, slowly opening her eyes. She was lying on her back in a lumpy, chilly, damp bed.
    Something tickled her forehead.
    As Alexandra raised her arm to brush the hair from her face, her hand hit something solid a few inches above her head.
    Dirt trickled down, hitting her neck and shoulders.
    Her other hand pressed against the bed—and found dirt.
    She flung her arms out with bruising force—and found dirt.
    Her toes, when she stretched her legs a little, found dirt.
    No, she thought, fighting the panic, this was a dream. A bad dream. She couldn't be . . . buried. Couldn't be.
    Shutting