They stopped at the carrot patch where two redheaded sisters had been buried in secret, as all these children had been buried. But there were no shapes, no whispery voices. Surreal didn't feel the numb horror she had the first time she'd seen this garden. Now there was grief mingled with the hope that those young girls were finally beyond the memory of what had been done to them.
Dannie was the only one there. Surreal tried hard not to look at the ghostly stump where a leg should have been. Her stomach tightened as she tried even harder not to remember what had been done with that leg.
Burying her pity, Surreal sent out a psychic thread of warmth and friendship toward the ghost-girl.
Dannie smiled.
Even in death the Blood were cruel, Surreal thought as she squeezed Rose's cold hand. How empty, how lonely the years must have been for those who weren't strong enough to become demon-dead but were too strong to return to the Darkness. They remained, chained to their graves, unseen, unheard, uncared for—except by Jaenelle.
What had happened to her?
Surreal and Rose finally walked back to the shrub garden. "They should all be gutted," Surreal growled, releasing Rose's hand. She leaned against the tree and stared at the building. Most of the windows were dark, but there were a few dim lights. Calling in her favorite stiletto, she balanced it in her hand and smiled. "Maybe one or two can feed the garden before I go."
"No," Rose said sharply, placing herself in front of Surreal. "You can't touch any of Briarwood's uncles. No one can."
Surreal straightened, a feral expression in her gold-green eyes. "I'm very good at what I do, Rose."
"No," Rose insisted. "When Jaenelle's blood was spilled, it woke the tangled web she created. It's a trap for all the uncles."
Surreal looked at the building, then at Rose. There had been rumors of a mysterious illness that was affecting a number of Chaillot's high-ranking members of the council—like Robert Benedict—as well as a few special dignitaries—like Kartane SaDiablo. "This trap will kill them?"
"Eventually," Rose said.
A vicious light filled Surreal's eyes. "What about a cure?"
"Briarwood is the pretty poison. There is no cure for Briarwood."
"Is it painful?"
Rose grinned. "To each will come what he gave."
Surreal vanished her stiletto. "Then let the bastards scream."
In the light of two smoking torches, the young Priestess double-checked the tools she had placed on the Dark Altar. Everything was ready: the four-branched candelabra with its black candles, the small silver cup, and the two vials of dark liquid—one with a white stopper, the other with a red.
When the stranger with the maimed hands had given her the vials, he'd assured her that the antidote would keep her from being affected by the witch's brew that had been designed to subdue a Warlord Prince.
She paced behind the Dark Altar, chewing on her thumbnail. It had sounded so easy, and yet . . .
She froze, not even daring to breathe as she tried to see beyond the wrought-iron gate into the dark corridor. Was something there?
Nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows, gliding toward the Altar with a predator's grace.
The Priestess squatted behind the Altar, broke the seal on the white-stoppered vial, and gulped the contents. She vanished the vial and rose. When she looked toward the wrought-iron gate, she clutched her Yellow Jewel as if it might protect her.
He stood on the other side of the Altar, watching her. Despite the rumpled clothing and the disheveled hair, he exuded a cold, carnal power.
The Priestess licked her lips and rubbed her damp hands on her robe. His golden eyes looked sleepy, slightly glazed.
Then he smiled.
She shivered and took a deep breath. "Have you come for advice or assistance?"
"Assistance," he said in a deep, cultured voice. "Have you the training to open the Gate?"
How could a man be so beautiful? she thought as she nodded. "There is a price." Her voice seemed to be swallowed by the shadows.
With his left hand, he drew an envelope out of an inner pocket in his coat and laid it on the Altar. "Will that be sufficient?"
As she reached for it, she glanced at him, her hand frozen above the thick white envelope. There was something in the question, although courteously asked, that warned her it had better be enough.
She forced herself to pick up the envelope and look inside. Then she leaned against the Altar for support. Gold thousand marks. At least ten times what the stranger with the maimed hands had offered.
But she already had an agreement with the stranger, and there would be time to pocket the marks before the guards arrived.
The Priestess carefully placed the envelope on the far corner of the Altar. "Most generous," she said, hoping she sounded unimpressed.
Taking a deep breath, she lifted the silver cup high over her head, then placed it carefully in front of her. She broke the seal on the red-stoppered vial, poured the contents into the cup, and held it out to him. "The journey through a Gate is a difficult undertaking. This will assist you."
He didn't take the cup.
She made an impatient sound and took a sip, trying not to gag on the bitter taste, then held out the cup.
He held it in his left hand, his nostrils flaring at the smell, but didn't drink.
A minute passed. Two.
With an imperceptible shrug, he gulped the contents of the cup.
The Priestess held her breath. How soon before it worked? How soon before the guards came?
His eyes changed. He swayed. Then he leaned across the Altar and looked at her the way a lover looks at his lady. She couldn't take her eyes off his lips. Soft. Sensual. She leaned toward him. One kiss. One sweet kiss.
Just before her lips touched his, his right hand closed around her wrist. "Bitch," he snarled softly.
Startled, she tried to pull away.
As his hand tightened, she stared at the Black-Jeweled ring.
His long nails pierced her skin. Then she felt the sharp needle prick of the snake tooth beneath his ring-finger nail, felt the venom chill her blood.
She flailed at him with her other hand, trying to reach his face, trying to scream for help as her vision blurred and her lungs refused to fill with needed air.
He broke both her wrists, snapping the bones as he thrust her away from him.
"The venom in my snake tooth doesn't work as quickly as you may think," he said too quietly, too gently. "In the end, you'll be able to scream. You'll tear yourself apart doing it, but you'll scream."
Then he was gone, and there was nothing but a silence within the night's silence, a shadow within the shadows.
By the time the guards arrived, she was screaming.
The floor rolled beneath him, teasing legs that already shook from exhaustion and were cramped by the foul witch's brew.
Behind that door was a safe place. As he reached for it, the floor rolled again, knocking his feet out from under him. His shoulder hit the door, cracking the old, rotting wood, and he fell into the room, landing heavily on his side.
"Bitch," he snarled softly.
Gray mist. A shattered crystal chalice. Black candles. Golden hair.
Blood. So much blood.
Words lie. Blood doesn't. "Shut up, Prick," he rasped.
The floor kept rolling under him. He dug his long nails into the wood, trying to keep his balance, trying to think.
His fever was dangerously high, and he knew he needed food, water, and rest. Right now, he was prey to whoever might think to look for him in this abandoned house where he had spent his earliest years with Tersa, his real mother.