"You don't like Dorothea," he said slowly, as if puzzling out a difficult problem.
"I like Hekatah even less," she snapped.
"Hekatah." Daemon released her, swearing softly as he paced the room. "Hekatah still exists? Like you?"
Cassandra sniffed. "Not like me. I'm a Guardian. She's a demon."
"I beg your pardon," he said dryly as he prowled the room.
"Are you saying you weren't sent here to kill the girl?" Cassandra rubbed her sore wrists.
Daemon stopped pacing. "I'll take some wine, if you're still offering it."
Cassandra got the glasses, a bottle of red wine, and the decanter of yarbarah. Pouring a glass of each, she handed him the wine.
Daemon tested it, sniffed it, and took a sip. One eyebrow rose. "You have excellent taste in wine, Lady."
Cassandra shrugged. "Not my taste. It was a gift." When he didn't say anything else, she prodded, "Is that why you're here?"
"Perhaps," he said slowly, thinking it over. Then he smiled wryly. "I was of the opinion that I was sent here because I had been a bit too troublesome of late and there wasn't another court that would have me, or another Queen that Dorothea was willing to sacrifice in order to blunt my temper." He sipped the wine appreciatively. "However, if what you believe is true—and recent events do seem to support that belief—it was a grave error on her part." He laughed softly, but there was a brutality to the sound that made Cassandra shiver.
"Why is it an error? If she offered you something of value to—"
"Like my freedom?" The wariness was back in his eyes. "Like a century of not having to kneel and serve?"
Cassandra pressed her lips together. This was going wrong, and if he turned against her again, he wouldn't relent a second time. "The girl means everything to us, Prince, and she means nothing to you."
"Nothing?" He smiled bitterly. "Do you think that someone like me, having lived as I've lived, being what I am, would destroy the one person he's been looking for his whole life? Do you think me such a fool I don't recognize what she is, what she'll become? She's magic, Cassandra. A single flower blooming in an endless desert."
Cassandra stared at him. "You're in love with her." Sudden anger washed over her at the next thought. "She's just a child."
"That fact hasn't eluded me," he said dryly as he refilled his wineglass. "Who is 'us'?"
"What?"
"You said 'the girl means everything to us.' Who?"
"Me . . ." Cassandra hesitated, took a deep breath. "And the Priest."
Daemon's expression was a mixture of relief and pain. He licked his lips. "Does he . . . Doeshe think I mean her harm?" He shook his head. "No matter. I've wondered the same about him."
Cassandra gasped, incensed. "How could—" She stopped herself. If they had presumed that about him, why would he not presume the same about them? She sat at the kitchen table. He hesitated and then sat across from her. "Listen to me," she said earnestly. "I can understand why you feel bitter toward him, but you don't feel half as bitter as he does. He never wanted to walk away from you, but he had no other choice. No matter what you think of him because of the way you've had to live, one thing is true: he adores her. With every breath, with every drop of his blood, he adores her."
Daemon toyed with the wineglass. "Isn't he a little old for her?"
"I'd say he was experienced," Cassandra replied tartly.
"She'll be a powerful Queen and should have an older, experienced Steward."
Daemon glanced at her, amused. "Steward?"
"Of course." She studied him. "Do you have ambitions to wear the Steward's ring?"
Daemon shook his head. His lips twitched. "No, I don't have any ambitions to wear theSteward's ring."
"Well, then." Cassandra's eyes widened. Now that the chill was gone, now that he was a little more relaxed . . . "You really are your father's son," she said dryly and was startled by his immediate, warm laughter. Her eyes narrowed. "You thought—that's wicked!"
"Is it?" His golden eyes caressed her with disturbing warmth. "Perhaps it is."
Cassandra smiled. When the anger and cold were gone, he really was a delightful man. "What does she think of you?"
"How in the name of Hell should I know?" he growled. His eyes narrowed as she laughed at him.
"Does she try your patience to the breaking point? Exasperate you until you want to scream? Make you feel as if you can't tell from one step to the next if you're going to touch solid ground or fall into a bottomless pit?"
He looked at her with interest. "Do you feel that way?"
"Oh, no," Cassandra said lightly. "But then, I'm not male."
Daemon growled.
"That's a familiar sound." It was fun teasing him because, despite his strength, he didn't frighten her the way Saetan did. "You and the Priest might have more in common than you think where she's concerned."
He laughed, and she knew it was the idea of Saetan being as bewildered as he that amused him, consoled him, linked him to them.
Daemon finished his wine and stood up. "I'm . . . glad . . . to have met you, Cassandra. I hope it won't be the last time."
She linked her arm through his and walked with him to the outer door of the Sanctuary. "You're welcome anytime, Prince."
Daemon raised her hand to his lips and kissed it lightly.
She watched him until he was out of sight before returning to the kitchen and washing the glasses.
Now there was just the delicate little matter of explaining this meeting to his father.
5—Terreille
There are some things the body never forgets, Saetan thought wryly as Cassandra snuggled closer to him, her hand tracing anxious little circles up and down his chest. Before tonight he'd politely refused to stay with her, wary that she might want more from him than he was willing—or able—to give. But she, too, was a Guardian, and that kind of love was no longer part of her life. There were, after all, some penalties to the half-life. Still, it pleased him to feel skin against skin, to caress the curves of a feminine body. If only she'd get to the point and stop making those damn little circles, because he remembered only too well what they meant.
He captured her hand and held it against his chest. "So?" As he turned his head and kissed her hair, he felt her frown. He pressed his lips together, annoyed. Had she forgotten how easy it was for him to read a woman's body, to pick up her subtlest moods? Was she going to deny what had screamed at him the moment he stepped into the kitchen?