Heir to the Shadows

"I don't give a damn who else he tells as long as that bastard tells the bitch who sent him."
    "He said that? He really said that?" Slumped in the only chair in the room, Greer nodded wearily.
    Hekatah, the self-proclaimed High Priestess of Hell, twirled around the room, her long black hair flying out behind her as she spun.
    This was even better than simply destroying the child. Now, with her torn mind and torn, dead body, the girl would be an invisible knife in Saetan's ribs, always twisting and twisting, a constant reminder that he wasn't the only power to contend with.
    Hekatah stopped spinning, tipped her head back, and flung her arms up in triumph. "She walks among the cildru dyathe!" Sinking gracefully to the floor, she leaned against an arm of Greer's chair and gently stroked his cheek. "And you, my sweet, were responsible for that. She's of no use to him now."
    "The girl is no longer useful to you either, Priestess."
    Hekatah pouted coquettishly, her gold eyes glittering with malice. "No longer useful for my original plans, but she'll be an .excellent weapon against that gutter son of a whore."
    Seeing Greer's blank expression, Hekatah rose to her feet, slapping the dust from her gown as she tsked in irritation. "Your body is dead, not your mind. Do try to think, Greer darling. Who else was interested in the child?"
    Greer sat up and slowly smiled. "Daemon Sadi."
    "Daemon Sadi," Hekatah agreed smugly. "How pleased do you think he'll be when he finds out his little darling is so very, very dead? And who, with a little help, do you think he'll blame for her departure from the living? Think of the fun pitting the son against the father. And if they destroy each other"—Hekatah opened her arms wide— "Hell will fragment once more, and the ones who were always too frightened to defy him will rally around me. With the strength of the demon-dead behind us, Terreille will finally kneel to me as the High Priestess, as it would have done all those many, many centuries ago if that bastard hadn't always thwarted my ambition."
    She looked around the small, almost-empty room in distaste. "Once he's gone, I'll reside again in the splendor that's my due. And you, my faithful darling, will serve at my side.
    "Come," she said, guiding him into another small room. "I realize the body's death is a shock . . ."
    Greer stared at the boy and girl cowering in a pile of straw.
    "We're demons, Greer," Hekatah said, stroking his arm. "We need fresh, hot blood. With it, we can keep our dead flesh strong. And although some pleasures of the flesh are no longer possible, there are compensations."
    Hekatah leaned against him, her lips close to his ear. "Landen children. A Blood child is better but more difficult to come by. But dining on a landen child also has compensations."
    Greer was breathing fast, as if he needed air.
    "A pretty little girl, don't you think, Greer? At your first psychic touch, her mind will burn to hot ash, but primitive emotions will remain . . . long enough . . . and fear is a delicious dinner."

3 / Terreille
     
    You are my instrument.
    Daemon Sadi shifted restlessly on the small bed that had been set up in one of the storage rooms beneath Deje's Red Moon house.
    . . . you are my instrument . . . riding the Winds to Cassandra's Altar . . . Surreal already there, crying . . . Cassandra there, angry ... so much blood ... his hands covered with Jaenelle's blood . . . descending into the abyss . . . falling, screaming ... a child who wasn't a child ... a narrow bed with straps to tie down hands and feet ... a sumptuous bed with silk sheets . . . the Dark Altar's cold stone . . . black candles . . . scented candles . . . a child screaming . . . his tongue licking a tiny spiral horn ... his body pinning hers to cold stone while she fought and screamed . . . begging her to forgive him . . . but what had he done? ... a golden mane ... his fingers tickling a fawn tail ... a narrow bed with silk sheets . . . a sumptuous bed with straps . . . forgive me, forgive me . . . his body pinning her down . . . what had he done? . . .
    Cassandra's anger cutting him . . . was she safe? . . . was she well? ... a sumptuous stone bed . . . silk sheets with straps ... a child screaming ... so much blood . . . you are my instrument . . . forgive me, forgive me . . . WHAT HAD HE DONE?
    Surreal sagged against the wall and listened to Daemon's muffled sobs. Who would have suspected that the Sadist could be so vulnerable? She and Deje knew