Heir to the Shadows

had never returned to the Altar after that night, and Surreal didn't know who the Priest was, let alone where to start looking for him.
    She cut the potatoes and fluffed them open. "I don't believe him." She looked up in time to see a lucid, arrested look in his eyes. Then it faded. He shook his head.
    "She's dead."
    "Maybe he was wrong." She took two servings of salad from the bowl and dressed them before sitting down and cutting into her steak. "Eat."
    He took his place at the table. "He wouldn't lie to me."
    Surreal plopped soured cream onto Daemon's baked potato and gritted her teeth. "I didn't say he lied. I said maybe he was wrong."
    Daemon closed his eyes. After a couple of minutes, he opened them and stared at the meal before him. "You fixed dinner."
    Gone. Turned down another path in that shattered inner landscape.
    "Yes, Daemon," Surreal said quietly, willing herself not to cry. "I fixed dinner. So let's eat it while it's hot."
    He helped her with the dishes.
    As they worked, Surreal realized Daemon's madness was confined to emotions, to people, to that single tragedy he couldn't face. It was as if Titian had never died, as if Surreal hadn't spent three years whoring in back alleys before Daemon found her again and arranged for a proper education in a Red Moon house. He thought she was still a child, and he continued to fret about Titian's absence. But when she mentioned a book she was reading, he made a dry observation about her eclectic taste and proceeded to tell her about other books that might be of interest. It was the same with music, with art. They posed no threat to him, had no time frame, weren't part of the nightmare of Jaenelle bleeding on that Dark Altar.
    Still, it was a strain to pretend to be a young girl, to pretend she didn't see the uncertainty and torment in his golden eyes. It was still early in the evening when she suggested they get some sleep.
    She settled into bed with a sigh. Maybe Daemon was as relieved to be away from her as she was from him. On some level he knew she wasn't a child. Just as he knew she'd been with him at Cassandra's Altar.
    Mist. Blood. So much blood. Shattered crystal chalices.
    You are my instrument.
    Words He. Blood doesn't.
    She walks among the cildru dyathe.
    Maybe he was wrong.
    He turned round and round.
    Maybe he was wrong.
    The mist opened, revealing a narrow path heading upward. He stared at it and shuddered. The path was lined with jagged rock that pointed sideways and down like great stone teeth. Anyone going down the path would brush against the smooth downward sides. Anyone going up ...
    He started to climb, leaving a little more of himself on each hungry point. A quarter of the way up, he finally noticed the sound, the roar of fast water. He looked up to see it burst over the high cliff above the path, come rushing toward him.
    Not water. Blood. So much blood.
    No room to turn. He scrambled backward, but the red flood caught him, smashed him against the stone words that had battered his mind for so long. Tumbling and lost, he caught a glimpse of calm land rising above the flood. He fought his way to that one small island of safety, grabbed at the long, sharp grass, and hauled himself up onto the crumbling ground. Shuddering, he held on to the island of maybe.
    When the rush and roar finally stopped, he found himself lying on a tiny, phallic-shaped island in the middle of a vast sea of blood.
    Even before she was fully awake, Surreal called in her stiletto.
    A soft, stealthy sound.
    She slipped out of bed and opened her door a crack, listening.
    Nothing.
    Maybe it was only Daemon groping in the bathroom.
    Gray, predawn light filled the short hallway. Keeping close to the wall, Surreal inspected the other rooms.
    The bathroom was empty. So was Daemon's bedroom.
    Swearing softly, Surreal examined his room. The bed looked like it had been through a storm, but the rest of the room was untouched. The only clothes missing were the ones she'd given him last night.
    Nothing missing from the living area. Nothing missing— damn it!—from the kitchen.
    Surreal vanished the stiletto before putting the kettle on for tea.
    Tersa used to vanish for days, months, sometimes years before showing up at one of these hideaways. Surreal had intended to move on soon, but what if Daemon returned in a few days and found her gone? Would he remember her as a child and worry? Would he try to find her?
    She made the tea and some toast. Taking them into the front room, she