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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 becomecildru 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."
"I trust the Priest."
Surreal puffed on the cigarette. So that was the Priest. Not a male she'd care to tangle with. Then again, Sadi wasn't a male she cared to tangle with either.
She snubbed out the cigarette and vanished it. "Come on, sugar. Let's create a few more surprises for Briarwood's darling uncles."
Cassandra eyed the corridor. "What is it?"
"A death spell." A vicious gleam filled Surreal's eyes. "First one who walks through that—it'll burst his heart, burst his balls, and finish the kill with a blast of the Gray. The spell gets sucked into the body so there's nothing anyone can trace. I usually add a timing spell to it, but we want to hit them fast and dirty."
Cassandra looked shocked. "Where did you learn to build something like that?"
Surreal shook her head and headed for another corridor to set another trap. This wasn't the time to tell Cassandra that Sadi had taught her that particular little spell. Especially when she kept wishing he'd taught it to Jaenelle.
Daemon slowly opened his eyes.
He knew he was lying on his back. He knew he couldn't move. He also knew he was naked. Why was he naked?
Mist swirled around him, teasing him, offering him no landmarks. Not that he expected to find anything familiar, but even the mind had landmarks. Except this was Jaenelle's mind, not his, in a place too deep for the rest of the Blood to reach.
He remembered feeling a hint of her as he probed the abyss, remembered diving, falling. Shattering.
Something moved in the mist. He heard a quietclink clink, like glass tapping glass.
He turned his head toward the sound, feeling as if it took all of his strength to do so little.
"Don't move," said a lilting, lyrical voice that also contained caverns and midnight skies.
The mist drew back enough for him to see her standing next to slabs of stone piled up to form a makeshift altar.
Shock rippled through him. The crystal shards on the altar rattled in response.
"Don't move," she said, sounding testy as she carefully fitted another shard of the shattered chalice into place.
It was Jaenelle's voice, but . . .
She was medium height, slender, and fair-skinned. Her gold mane—not quite hair and not quite fur—was brushed up and back from her exotic face and didn't hide the delicately pointed ears. In the center of her forehead was a tiny, spiral horn. A narrow strip of gold fur traced her spine, ending in a small gold and white fawn tail that flicked over her bare bu**ocks. The legs were human and shapely but changed below the calf. Instead of feet, she had dainty horse's hooves. Her human hands had sheathed claws like a cat's. As she shifted position to slip another shard into place, he saw the small, round br**sts, the feminine curve of waist and hips, the dark-gold triangle of hair between her legs.
