Daughter of the Blood

responsive, and excited. Whatever was setting the humans on edge, the stallion felt it too, but it made that simpler mind happy.
    Not interested in a fight, Daemon turned them toward the tree.
    Demon stopped at the tree and watched the rise they'd just come over, patiently waiting. The horse stood that way for ten minutes before eagerness gave way to dejection. When Daemon turned the horse toward the path, there was no resistance, and the gallop was halfhearted at best.
    An hour later, Daemon handed the reins to Andrew and entered the house by a back door. He felt it as soon as he stepped through the doorway, and a rush of blazing anger crested and broke over him.
    Striding through the corridors, Daemon slammed into his room, hurriedly showered and dressed. If he had encountered Philip during that brief walk to his room, he would have killed him.
    How dare that Gray-Jeweled fool try to keep him away? How dare he?
    Daemon knew his eyes were glazed with fury, but he didn't care. He tore out of his room and went hunting for the family.
    He spun around a corner and skidded to a halt.
    Wilhelmina looked pale but relieved. Graff scowled. Leland and Alexandra stared at him, startled and tense. Philip's shoulders straightened in obvious challenge.
    Daemon saw it all in an instant and ignored it. The other girl commanded his full attention.
    She looked emaciated, her arms and legs little more than sticks. Her head hung down, and lank strands of gold hair hid most of her face.
    "Have you forgotten your manners?" Graff's bony fingers poked the girl's shoulder.
    The girl's head snapped up at Graff's sharp prod, and her eyes, those eyes, locked onto his for a brief moment before she lowered her gaze, made a wobbly curtsy, and murmured, "Prince."
    Daemon's heart pounded and his mouth watered.
    Knowing he was out of control, he bowed curtly and harshly replied, "Lady." He nodded to Philip and the others, turned on his heel, and once out of sight, bolted for the library and locked the door.
    His breath came in ragged sobs, his hands shook, and may the Darkness help him, he was on fire.
    No, he thought fiercely as he stormed around the room looking for some explanation, some kind of escape. NO ! He was not like Kartane. He had never hungered for a child's flesh. He was not like Kartane!
    Collapsing against a bookcase, Daemon forced one shaking hand to slide to the mound between his trembling legs . . . and sobbed with relief to find those inches of flesh still flaccid . . . unlike the rest of him, which was seared by a fierce hunger.
    Pushing away from the bookcase, Daemon went to the window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Think, damn you, think.
    He closed his eyes and pictured the girl, piece by piece. As he concentrated on remembering her body, the fire eased. Until he remembered those sapphire eyes locking onto his.
    Daemon laughed hysterically as tears rolled down his face.
    He had accepted that Witch was a child, but he hadn't been prepared for his reaction when he finally saw her. He could take some comfort that he didn't want the child's body, but the hunger he felt for what lived inside that body scared him. The thought of being sent to another court where he couldn't see her at all scared him even more.
    But it had been decades since he'd served in a court for more than a year. How was he going to keep this dance going until she was old enough to accept his surrender?
    And how was he going to survive if he didn't stay?

2—Terreille
    Early the next morning Daemon staggered to the kitchen, his eyes hot and gritty from a sleepless night, his stomach aching from hunger. After leaving the library yesterday afternoon, he'd stayed in his room, unwilling to have dinner with the family and unwilling to meet anyone if he slipped down to the kitchen for something to eat.
    As he reached the kitchen, the muffled giggles immediately stopped as two very different pairs of blue eyes watched him approach. Cook, looking happier than he'd ever seen her, gave him a warm greeting and told him the coffee was almost ready.
    Moving cautiously, as though approaching something young and wild, Daemon sat down at one end of the kitchen table, on Jaenelle's left. With a pang of regret, he looked at the remains of a formidable breakfast and the one nut cake left on a plate.
    There was an awkward moment of silence before Jaenelle leaned over and whispered something to Wilhelmina, Wilhelmina whispered something back, and the giggling