Daughter of the Blood

"You know the Sadist?" Deje asked, her eyes sharp.



"We're acquainted," Surreal said reluctantly.



Deje hesitated. "Is he as good as they say?"



Surreal shuddered. "Don't ask."



Deje looked startled but quickly regained her professional manner. "No matter. None of my business anyway." Coming around the desk, she put an arm around Surreal's shoulders and led her down the hall. "A garden room, I think. You can sit out quietly in the evening, eat your meals in your room if you choose. If anyone notices you're here and makes a request for your company, I'll tell them it's your moon time and you need your rest. Most of them wouldn't know the difference."



Surreal gave Deje a shaky grin. "Well, it's the truth."



Deje shook her head and clucked her tongue in annoyance as she opened the door and led Surreal into the room. "Sometimes you've no more sense than a first-year chit, pushing yourself at a time when the Jewels will squeeze you dry if you try to tap into them." She muttered to herself as she pulled down the bedcovers and plumped the pillows. "Get into a nice comfy nightie—not one of those sleek things—and get into bed. We've got a hearty soup tonight. You'll have that. And I've got some new novels in the library, nice fluff reading. I'll bring a few of them; you can take your pick. And—"



"Deje, you should've been someone's mother," Surreal laughed.



Deje put her hands on her ample hips and tried to look offended. "A fine thing to say to someone in my business." She made a shooing motion with her hands. "Into bed and not another word from you. Honey? Honey, what's wrong?"



Surreal sank onto the bed, tears rolling silently down her cheeks. "I can't sleep, Deje. I have dreams that I'm supposed to be somewhere, do something. But I don't know where or what it is."



Deje sat on the bed and wiped the tears from Surreal's face. "They're only dreams, honey. Yes, they are. You're just worn out."



"I'm scared, Deje," Surreal whispered. "There's something really wrong with him. I can feel it. Once I started running, hoping I was going in the opposite direction, that whole damn continent wasn't big enough. I need a clean place for a while." Surreal looked at Deje, her large eyes full of ghosts. "I need time."



Deje stroked Surreal's hair. "Sure, honey, sure. You take all the time you need. Nobody's going to push you in my house. Come on now, get into bed. I'll bring you something to eat and a little something to help you sleep." She gave Surreal a quick kiss on the forehead and hurried out of the room.



Surreal put on an old, soft nightgown and climbed into bed. It was good to be back at Deje's house, good to be back in Chaillot. Now if only the Sadist would stay away, maybe she could get some sleep.



7—Terreille



Daemon knocked on the kitchen door.



Inside, the spright little tune someone was singing stopped.



Waiting for the door to open, Daemon looked around, pleased to see that the snug little cottage was in good repair. The lawn and flowerbeds were neatly tended. The summer crop in the vegetable garden was almost done, but the healthy vines at one end promised a good crop of pumpkins and winter squash.



Still too early for pumpkins. Daemon sighed with regret while his mouth watered at the memory of Manny's pumpkin tarts.



At the back of the yard were two sheds. The smaller one probably contained gardening tools. The larger one was Jo's woodshop. The old man was probably tucked away in there coaxing an elegant little table out of pieces of wood, oblivious to everything except his work.



The kitchen door remained closed. The silence continued.



Concerned. Daemon opened the door enough to slip his head and shoulders inside and look around.



Manny stood by her worktable, one floury hand pressed to her bosom.



Damn. He should have realized a Warlord Prince's appearance would frighten her. He'd changed enough since he'd last seen her that she might not recognize his psychic scent.



Putting on his best smile, he said, "Darling, if you're going to pretend you're not home, the least you can do is close the windows. The smell of those nut cakes will draw the most unsavory characters."



Manny gave a cry of relief and joy, hustled around the worktable, and shuffle-ran toward the door, her floury hands waving cheerfully in front of her. "Daemon!"



Daemon stepped into the kitchen, slid one arm around the woman's thick waist, and twirled her around.



Manny laughed and flapped her arms. "Put me down. I'm getting flour all over your nice coat."



"I don't care about the coat." He kissed her cheek and set her carefully on her feet. With a bow and a flourish of his wrist, he presented her with a bouquet of flowers. "For my favorite lady."



Misty-eyed, Manny bent her head to smell the flowers. "I'll put these in some water." She bustled around the kitchen, filled a vase, and spent several minutes arranging the flowers. "You go into the parlor and I'll bring out some nut cakes and tea."



Manny and Jo had been servants in the SaDiablo court when he was growing up. Manny had taken care of him, practically raised him. And the darling was still trying.



Hiding a smile, Daemon stuffed his hands in his pockets and scuffed his gleaming black shoe against the kitchen floor. He looked at her through his long black lashes. "What'd I do?" he said in a sad, slightly pouty, little-boy voice. "What'd I do not to deserve a chair in the kitchen anymore?"



Trying to sound exasperated, Manny only laughed. "No use trying to raise you proper. Sit down, then, and behave yourself."



Daemon laughed, lighthearted and boyish, and plunked himself gracelessly into one of the kitchen chairs. Manny pulled out plates and cups. "Although why you want to stay in the kitchen is beyond me."



"The kitchen is where the food is."



"Guess there's some things boys never grow out of. Here." Manny set a glass in front of him.



Daemon looked at the glass, then looked at her.



"It's milk," she added.



"I did recognize it," he said dryly.



"Good. Then drink it." She folded her arms and tapped her foot. "No milk, no nut cakes."



"You always were a martinet," Daemon muttered. He picked up the glass, grimaced, and drank it down. He handed her the glass, giving her his best boyish smile. "Now may I have a nut cake?"



Manny laughed, shaking her head. "You're impossible." She put the kettle on for tea and began transferring the nut cakes to a platter. "What brings you here?"



"I came to see you." Daemon crossed his legs and steepled his fingers, resting them lightly on his chin.



She glanced up, gasped, and then busily rearranged the cakes.



Puzzled by the stunned look on her face, Daemon watched her rearrange everything twice. Searching for a neutral topic, he said, "The place looks good. Keeping it up isn't too much work for you?"



"The young people in the village help out," Manny said mildly.



Daemon frowned. "Aren't there sufficient funds for a handyman and cleaning woman?"



"Sure there are, but why would I want some other grown woman clumping about my house, telling me how to polish my furniture?" She grinned slyly. "Besides, the girls are willing to help with the heavy work in exchange for pocket money, a few of my special recipes, and a chance to flirt with the boys without their parents standing around watching them. And the boys are willing to help with the outside work in exchange for pocket money, food, and an excuse to strip off their shirts and show their muscles to the girls."



Daemon's laughter filled the kitchen. "Manny, you've become the village matchmaker."



Manny smiled smugly. "Jo's working on a cradle right now for one of the young couples."



"I hope there was a wedding beforehand."



"Of course." Manny said indignantly. She thumped the platter of nut cakes in front of him. "Shame on you, teasing an old woman."



"Do I still get nut cakes?" he asked contritely.



She ruffled his hair in answer and took the kettle off the stove.



Daemon stared into space. So many questions, and no answers.



"You're troubled," Manny said, filling the tea ball.



Daemon shook himself. "I'm looking for information that may be hard to find. A friend told me to beware of the Priest."



Manny slipped the tea ball into the pot to steep. "Huh. Anyone with a lick of sense takes care around the Priest."



Daemon stared at her. She knew the Priest. Were the answers really this close? "Manny, sit down for a moment."



Manny ignored him and hurriedly slid the cups onto the table, keeping out of his reach. "The tea's ready now. I'll call Jo—"



"Who is the Priest?"



"—he'll be glad to see you."



Daemon uncoiled from the chair, clamped one hand around her wrist, and pulled her into the other chair. Manny stared at his hand, at the ring finger that wore no Jeweled ring, at the long, black-tinted nails.



"Who is the Priest?"



"You mustn't talk about him. You must never talk about him."



"Who is the Priest?" His voice became dangerously soft.



"The tea," she said weakly.



Daemon poured two cups of tea. Returning to the table, he crossed his legs and steepled his fingers. "Now."



Manny lifted the cup to her lips but found the tea too hot to drink. She set the cup down again, fussing with its handle until it was exactly parallel to the edge of the table. Finally she dropped her hands in her lap and sighed.