"Surreal?" Daemon called softly.
A sob answered him. The Gray wall dropped.
Daemon ran toward her. Surreal waited for him, tears streaming down her face.
"I wasn't in time," she sobbed as Daemon took the sheet-wrapped bundle from her shaking arms and held it close to his chest. "I wasn't in time."
Daemon turned back the way he'd come. "Cassandra must have a room here somewh—"
"Go to the Altar, namesake."
"She needs—"
"The Altar."
Daemon turned again, racing toward the Altar that lay in the center of the Sanctuary. Surreal ran ahead to push open the Altar room's stiff wrought-iron gate. Daemon rushed in and carefully laid Jaenelle on the Altar.
"We need some light," he said, desperation making his voice harsh.
Witchlight bloomed overhead.
Cassandra stood behind the Altar. Her Black Jewels glowed. Her emerald eyes stabbed at him.
Daemon looked down and saw the blood on his shirt.
"Courage, namesake."
"So," Cassandra said quietly, her eyes never leaving Daemon's face, "you're both here."
Daemon nodded as he swiftly unwrapped the sheet.
Cassandra clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream.
Blood gushed between Jaenelle's legs. Daemon's hands were slick with it as his fingers rested at the junction of her thighs and became a channel for a delicate tendril of power and the little healing Craft he knew. He searched, probed.
Witches bled more on their Virgin Night than other women, and dark-Jeweled witches most of all. They paid for their strength with moments of fragility, moments when the balance of power shifted to the male's advantage and left them vulnerable.
But even that didn't explain this much blood.
Searching, probing.
Icy shock ran through him when he found the answer. Glacial rage followed.
"They used something to tear her open. The bastards tore her open. "He slid his hands over her torso, over the cuts and bruises. "How much healing Craft do you know?" he snapped at Saetan.
"I have a great deal of knowledge, but even less of the healing gift than you. It's not enough, Daemon."
"Then who has enough?"
Jaenelle's blank eyes stared at him.
Daemon reached to cup her face in his hands.
"No," Cassandra said, coming around the Altar. "Let me. A Sister won't be a threat."
Daemon hated her for saying it. Hated her even more because, right now, it was true.
"Let her try, namesake," Saetan said, forcing Daemon to step back.
Cassandra pressed her fingers against Jaenelle's temples and stared into the unblinking eyes. After a minute, she stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself, as if needing comfort. Her lips quivered. "She's out of reach," she said in a hoarse, defeated whisper.
It didn't mean anything. Jaenelle was stronger than the rest of them. She could descend further. It didn't mean anything.
But Tersa's vision of the shattered crystal chalice mocked him. You know, it said. You know why she doesn't answer.
"No." Daemon wasn't sure if the denial was his or Saetan's.
Surreal stepped forward. Her face was ashen, but her gold-green eyes flashed with determination. "The girl Rose said they'd given her too much medicine and she couldn't get out of the misty place. Probably a vile mixture of safframate and a sedative."
Saetan's voice sounded tightly calm. "I can't sense a link between her body and her Self. It's either very faint or she's severed it completely. If we don't draw her back now, we'll lose her."
"You mean I'll lose her," Daemon snapped at him. "If her body dies, you'll still have her, won't you?"
He felt heart-tearing pain come through the link.
"No," Saetan whispered. "I was told by one who would know that dreams made flesh don't become cildru dyathe, "
Daemon closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "How deep is your well, Priest?"
"I don't know."
"Then let's find out." Daemon turned to Surreal. "Go out. Keep watch. Those sons of whoring bitches will be coming soon. Buy us some time, Surreal."
Surreal glanced at the Altar. "I'll keep them out until I hear from you." She slipped through the wrought-iron gate and disappeared into the labyrinth of dark corridors.
"Go with her," Daemon said to Cassandra. "This is private."
Before she could protest, Saetan said, "Go, Lady."
Daemon waited until he was sure she was gone. Then he stretched out on the Altar and took Jaenelle in his arms.
The power from Saetan flowed into him, wrapped around him.
"Keep the descent at a steady pace," Saetan warned.
So easy to slip into that abandoned body, so easy to glide down through all that emptiness until he reached the depth of his own inner web. He held there, trying to probe further down.
Far, far, far below him, a flash of lightning lit up a swirling black mist.
"Jaenelle!" Daemon shouted. "Jaenelle!"
No answer.
Spinning out the link to make it thinner and longer, Daemon eased past the depth of his inner web.
"Daemon!" Saetan's worry vibrated through the link.
A little deeper. A little deeper.
He felt the pressure now, but kept spinning out the link.
Down down down.
Like diving too deep in water, the abyss pressed against him, pressed against his mind. That inner core of Self could go only so deep. Any deeper and the very power that made the Blood the Blood would try to pour into a vessel too small to hold it, crushing the spirit, shattering the mind.
Down down down. Gliding through the emptiness, spinning out the link between him and Saetan thinner and thinner.
"Daemon!" Saetan's voice was a hoarse, distant thunder. "You're too deep. Pull up, Daemon. Pull up!"
A tiny psychic feather rose out of the mist that was still far below him, brushed against him and withdrew, startled and puzzled.
"Jaenelle!" Daemon shouted. When he got no answer, he sent on a spear thread. "I felt her, Priest! I felt her!"
He also felt agony through the link and realized he was being pulled upward.
"No!" he yelled, fighting the upward pull."NO!"
The link snapped.
No longer tied to the power Saetan was channeling, he became an empty vessel that the power in the abyss rushed to fill. Too much. Too fast. Too strong.
He screamed as his mind ripped, tore, shattered.
Shattering and shattering, he fell, screaming, and disappeared into the lightning-streaked black mist.
Surreal put the finishing touches on the spell she was weaving across a corridor that led to the inner rooms and toyed with the idea of shoving Cassandra into it just to see what would happen. She didn't have anything against the woman personally, but that sulky temper and the dagger glances Cassandra kept throwing back toward the Altar room were fraying nerves already stretched a little too thin.
She stepped back and rubbed her hands against her trouser seat. Calling in a black cigarette, she lit it with a little tongue of witchfire, took a puff, and then offered it to Cassandra, who just shook her head and glared.
"What are they trying to do that it has to be private?" Cassandra said for the tenth time in the past few minutes.
"Back off, sugar," Surreal snapped. "That smart-ass remark about her trusting you more than him was enough reason for him to toss you out the door."
"It's true," Cassandra said angrily. "A Sister—"
"Sister, shit. And I don't hear you bitching about the other one I caught a whiff of."