Daughter of the Blood
Page 76
"I don't want the body," she whimpered. "It hurts."
"Not always, sweetheart. Not always. Without the body, how will you hear a bird's song? How will you feel a warm summer rain on your skin? How will you taste nut-cakes? How will you walk on a beach at sunset and feel the sand and surf under your . . . hooves?"
He felt her mood lighten before he heard the sniffled giggle. As she raised her head to look at him, her thighs shifted where they straddled him.
A fire sparked in his loins and he stirred.
She leaned back and watched him swell and rise.
He saw innocence in her face, a kitten's curiosity. He saw a female shape that, if not fully mature, was also not a child.
He clenched his teeth and swore silently when she began stroking him lightly.
Stroke. Observe the reaction as if she'd never seen a man become aroused. Stroke. Observe.
He wanted to push her away. He wanted to pull her down on top of him. It was killing him. It was wonderful. As he reached for her hand to stop her, she said in a quiet, wondering voice, "Your maleness has no spines."
Rage froze him. The shards of the chalice rattled as he leashed the fury that had no outlet here. For a moment he tried very, very hard to believe she was comparing him to another species of male, but he knew too much about the twisted males who enjoyed breaking a young, strong witch on her Virgin Night.
Mother Night! No wonder she didn't want to go back. She studied him, puzzled. "Does the body's maleness have spines?"
Daemon swallowed the rage. The Sadist transformed it into deadly silk. "No," he crooned. "My maleness has no spines."
"Soft," she said as she stroked and explored. His hands whispered over her thighs, over her hips. "It could give you pleasure," he crooned softly.
"Pleasure?" Her eyes lit up with curiosity and anticipation.
The childlike trust stabbed him in the heart. She must have sensed some change in him. Before he could stop her, she exploded, kicking his thigh as she leaped away from him. Out of reach, she hugged herself and glared at him.
"You want to mate with the body. Like the others. You want me to make her well so you can put your maleness inside her."
Rage washed through him. "Who is her?" he asked too softly.
"Jaenelle."
"You're Jaenelle."
"I AM WITCH!"
He trembled with the effort not to attack her. "Jaenelle is Witch and Witch is Jaenelle."
"They never want me." She thumped her chest with her fist. "Not me. They don't want me inside the body. They want to mate with Jaenelle, not Witch."
He felt her fragment more and more.
"This is Witch," she screamed at him. "This is who lived inside the body. Do you want to mate with Witch?"
Anger made him lash out. "No, I don't want to mate with you. I want to make love to you."
Whatever she was about to say went unsaid. She stared at him as if he were something unknown. She took a hesitant step toward him.
She'll take the bait, the Sadist whispered inside him. She'll take the bait and step into the pretty trap.
Another step.
Deadly, deadly silk.
Another.
A sweet trap spun from love and lies . . . and truth.
"I've waited seven hundred years for you," he crooned. "For you." His lips curved in a seducer's smile. "I was born to be your lover."
"Lover?"
Almost within reach.
Without his body, the seduction tendrils weren't as potent, but he saw the change in her eyes when they reached her.
Still, she hovered out of reach. "Then why do you want the body?"
"Because that body can sheathe me so that I can give you pleasure." He watched her think about this. "Do you like my body?"
"It's beautiful," she said reluctantly, and then added hurriedly, "but you look the same here. And Witch can sheathe your maleness."
The Sadist held out his hand. "Why don't we find out?"
She took his hand and gracefully settled over him, straddling his thighs. Then she looked at him expectantly.
He smiled at her while his hands explored her, soothing and arousing. When his fingers tickled the underside of her fawn tail, she squeaked and jumped. He resettled her tighter against him, wrapped one arm around her hips to keep her still while his other hand slid through the gold mane and cupped her head. Then he kissed her. A soft kiss. A melting kiss. She sighed when he caressed her breasts. She trembled when he licked the tiny spiral horn. When he was sure she'd taken the bait, he whispered, "Sweetheart, you're right. This place is too dark for me. The chalice is too fragile and I . . . I hurt." She looked at him regretfully but nodded.
"Wait," he said when she tried to move away. "Can you come up with me? Up to my inner web?" He licked her ear. His voice became a throbbing purr. "We'd still be safe there."
He leashed the urgency he felt and waited for her answer. There was no way to tell how much time had passed at the Altar, no way to know if their bodies were still there, no way to know if hers still lived, no way to know if those monsters from Briarwood had reached the Sanctuary. No way to know what his body was doing.
He pushed the thought away. He didn't have a link now; the Priest did. Whatever he was doing, it was Saetan's problem.
The rushing ascent caught him by surprise. He grabbed her at the same moment she wrapped her legs around him.
"Lover," she said, smiling at him. Then she giggled.
He wondered if, with a lifetime of wandering in that strange blend of innocence and formidable knowledge, she knew what the word meant.
Doesn't matter, the Sadist whispered. She took the bait.
They rose until they were high in the Black, comfortably above his inner web.
"Better?" she asked shyly.
"Much better," he answered, fitting his mouth to hers.
He kissed her until she relaxed, and then he sighed again.
Hurry, the Sadist whispered.
He leaned his forehead against hers and yelped when the tiny spiral horn jabbed him.
She giggled and kissed his forehead. "Kisses make it better?"
Revulsion swamped him for a moment. That was a child's voice. A young child's voice.
He looked over her shoulder, trying to reconcile the female shape wrapped around him with that voice, and saw fragments of shattered crystal floating through the Black.
Pieces of her. Pieces and pieces of her. Part of her was still intact. Had to be. The part that held the knowledge of the Craft. How could she have put him together otherwise? But if she kept slipping in and out of those fragments . . .
Like Tersa. Worse than Tersa.
"Daemon?"
The midnight voice, with a deadly edge to it.
Remember this side of her, the Sadist warned. Ignore the rest.
Daemon smiled at her. "Lover," he said, nipping her lower lip. Then he used every trick he'd ever learned to sweeten the bait.
But he wouldn't let her raise her hips to sheathe him.
"Still too dark," he gasped when she began to whimper and snarl. "Let's go to the Red. It's my Birthright."
She tried to shake off the seduction tendrils he'd woven around her, but he'd spun his trap well.
"We can have a bed there," he coaxed.
She shuddered. Whimpered. There was no pleasure in the sound.
An image appeared. A bed just big enough for the game. A bed with straps attached to the ends to tie down wrists and ankles.
He dismissed the image and replaced it with his own. A large room with deep, soft carpets. A huge bed, its canopy made of gauze and velvet. Silk sheets and downy covers. Mounds of pillows. The only light came from a slow-burning fire and dozens of scented candles.
Blinded by romance, she sighed and melted against him.
He held the image, teasing, tantalizing as they rose to the Red.
As they settled among the silk and pillows, he tried to reach for some link—his body, the Priest, anything—and choked on frustration. So close. So close and there was nothing for him to tap into to finish it—except the power Jaenelle had shaped around his chalice to hold the pieces together.
Caressing and soothing, loving and lying, he kept her focused on the pleasure while he cautiously sipped the power forming the skin inside the chalice. The skin shrank. The top fragments wobbled but held. Enough.
He reached for Saetan. Found exhaustion and a killing fury.
He struck first. "Hush, Priest." He waited a moment, tapped a little more of the power holding the chalice together. "Use whatever you can now to form a tether. And prepare for a fight. I'm bringing her back."
He reached for his body next. It was still stretched out on the Altar, next to Jaenelle. He strengthened the connection enough so that his body imitated his movements.
Smiling, Daemon slowly rolled on top of her. Gently pinned her hands on either side of her head.
He kissed her, nuzzled her as they rose and rose and rose.
She rubbed against him. "Lover," she whimpered.
"Soon," he lied. "Soon."
Up and up.
He was moments away from slipping back into his body when her eyes widened and she felt the trap spring around her.
"No!" she screamed.
Baring his teeth, he slammed both of them back into their bodies.
Her screams filled the Altar room. Blood gushed between her legs.
"Not always, sweetheart. Not always. Without the body, how will you hear a bird's song? How will you feel a warm summer rain on your skin? How will you taste nut-cakes? How will you walk on a beach at sunset and feel the sand and surf under your . . . hooves?"
He felt her mood lighten before he heard the sniffled giggle. As she raised her head to look at him, her thighs shifted where they straddled him.
A fire sparked in his loins and he stirred.
She leaned back and watched him swell and rise.
He saw innocence in her face, a kitten's curiosity. He saw a female shape that, if not fully mature, was also not a child.
He clenched his teeth and swore silently when she began stroking him lightly.
Stroke. Observe the reaction as if she'd never seen a man become aroused. Stroke. Observe.
He wanted to push her away. He wanted to pull her down on top of him. It was killing him. It was wonderful. As he reached for her hand to stop her, she said in a quiet, wondering voice, "Your maleness has no spines."
Rage froze him. The shards of the chalice rattled as he leashed the fury that had no outlet here. For a moment he tried very, very hard to believe she was comparing him to another species of male, but he knew too much about the twisted males who enjoyed breaking a young, strong witch on her Virgin Night.
Mother Night! No wonder she didn't want to go back. She studied him, puzzled. "Does the body's maleness have spines?"
Daemon swallowed the rage. The Sadist transformed it into deadly silk. "No," he crooned. "My maleness has no spines."
"Soft," she said as she stroked and explored. His hands whispered over her thighs, over her hips. "It could give you pleasure," he crooned softly.
"Pleasure?" Her eyes lit up with curiosity and anticipation.
The childlike trust stabbed him in the heart. She must have sensed some change in him. Before he could stop her, she exploded, kicking his thigh as she leaped away from him. Out of reach, she hugged herself and glared at him.
"You want to mate with the body. Like the others. You want me to make her well so you can put your maleness inside her."
Rage washed through him. "Who is her?" he asked too softly.
"Jaenelle."
"You're Jaenelle."
"I AM WITCH!"
He trembled with the effort not to attack her. "Jaenelle is Witch and Witch is Jaenelle."
"They never want me." She thumped her chest with her fist. "Not me. They don't want me inside the body. They want to mate with Jaenelle, not Witch."
He felt her fragment more and more.
"This is Witch," she screamed at him. "This is who lived inside the body. Do you want to mate with Witch?"
Anger made him lash out. "No, I don't want to mate with you. I want to make love to you."
Whatever she was about to say went unsaid. She stared at him as if he were something unknown. She took a hesitant step toward him.
She'll take the bait, the Sadist whispered inside him. She'll take the bait and step into the pretty trap.
Another step.
Deadly, deadly silk.
Another.
A sweet trap spun from love and lies . . . and truth.
"I've waited seven hundred years for you," he crooned. "For you." His lips curved in a seducer's smile. "I was born to be your lover."
"Lover?"
Almost within reach.
Without his body, the seduction tendrils weren't as potent, but he saw the change in her eyes when they reached her.
Still, she hovered out of reach. "Then why do you want the body?"
"Because that body can sheathe me so that I can give you pleasure." He watched her think about this. "Do you like my body?"
"It's beautiful," she said reluctantly, and then added hurriedly, "but you look the same here. And Witch can sheathe your maleness."
The Sadist held out his hand. "Why don't we find out?"
She took his hand and gracefully settled over him, straddling his thighs. Then she looked at him expectantly.
He smiled at her while his hands explored her, soothing and arousing. When his fingers tickled the underside of her fawn tail, she squeaked and jumped. He resettled her tighter against him, wrapped one arm around her hips to keep her still while his other hand slid through the gold mane and cupped her head. Then he kissed her. A soft kiss. A melting kiss. She sighed when he caressed her breasts. She trembled when he licked the tiny spiral horn. When he was sure she'd taken the bait, he whispered, "Sweetheart, you're right. This place is too dark for me. The chalice is too fragile and I . . . I hurt." She looked at him regretfully but nodded.
"Wait," he said when she tried to move away. "Can you come up with me? Up to my inner web?" He licked her ear. His voice became a throbbing purr. "We'd still be safe there."
He leashed the urgency he felt and waited for her answer. There was no way to tell how much time had passed at the Altar, no way to know if their bodies were still there, no way to know if hers still lived, no way to know if those monsters from Briarwood had reached the Sanctuary. No way to know what his body was doing.
He pushed the thought away. He didn't have a link now; the Priest did. Whatever he was doing, it was Saetan's problem.
The rushing ascent caught him by surprise. He grabbed her at the same moment she wrapped her legs around him.
"Lover," she said, smiling at him. Then she giggled.
He wondered if, with a lifetime of wandering in that strange blend of innocence and formidable knowledge, she knew what the word meant.
Doesn't matter, the Sadist whispered. She took the bait.
They rose until they were high in the Black, comfortably above his inner web.
"Better?" she asked shyly.
"Much better," he answered, fitting his mouth to hers.
He kissed her until she relaxed, and then he sighed again.
Hurry, the Sadist whispered.
He leaned his forehead against hers and yelped when the tiny spiral horn jabbed him.
She giggled and kissed his forehead. "Kisses make it better?"
Revulsion swamped him for a moment. That was a child's voice. A young child's voice.
He looked over her shoulder, trying to reconcile the female shape wrapped around him with that voice, and saw fragments of shattered crystal floating through the Black.
Pieces of her. Pieces and pieces of her. Part of her was still intact. Had to be. The part that held the knowledge of the Craft. How could she have put him together otherwise? But if she kept slipping in and out of those fragments . . .
Like Tersa. Worse than Tersa.
"Daemon?"
The midnight voice, with a deadly edge to it.
Remember this side of her, the Sadist warned. Ignore the rest.
Daemon smiled at her. "Lover," he said, nipping her lower lip. Then he used every trick he'd ever learned to sweeten the bait.
But he wouldn't let her raise her hips to sheathe him.
"Still too dark," he gasped when she began to whimper and snarl. "Let's go to the Red. It's my Birthright."
She tried to shake off the seduction tendrils he'd woven around her, but he'd spun his trap well.
"We can have a bed there," he coaxed.
She shuddered. Whimpered. There was no pleasure in the sound.
An image appeared. A bed just big enough for the game. A bed with straps attached to the ends to tie down wrists and ankles.
He dismissed the image and replaced it with his own. A large room with deep, soft carpets. A huge bed, its canopy made of gauze and velvet. Silk sheets and downy covers. Mounds of pillows. The only light came from a slow-burning fire and dozens of scented candles.
Blinded by romance, she sighed and melted against him.
He held the image, teasing, tantalizing as they rose to the Red.
As they settled among the silk and pillows, he tried to reach for some link—his body, the Priest, anything—and choked on frustration. So close. So close and there was nothing for him to tap into to finish it—except the power Jaenelle had shaped around his chalice to hold the pieces together.
Caressing and soothing, loving and lying, he kept her focused on the pleasure while he cautiously sipped the power forming the skin inside the chalice. The skin shrank. The top fragments wobbled but held. Enough.
He reached for Saetan. Found exhaustion and a killing fury.
He struck first. "Hush, Priest." He waited a moment, tapped a little more of the power holding the chalice together. "Use whatever you can now to form a tether. And prepare for a fight. I'm bringing her back."
He reached for his body next. It was still stretched out on the Altar, next to Jaenelle. He strengthened the connection enough so that his body imitated his movements.
Smiling, Daemon slowly rolled on top of her. Gently pinned her hands on either side of her head.
He kissed her, nuzzled her as they rose and rose and rose.
She rubbed against him. "Lover," she whimpered.
"Soon," he lied. "Soon."
Up and up.
He was moments away from slipping back into his body when her eyes widened and she felt the trap spring around her.
"No!" she screamed.
Baring his teeth, he slammed both of them back into their bodies.
Her screams filled the Altar room. Blood gushed between her legs.
