hands, she saw blood on her fingertips. Wiping them against her skirts, she flew to the door. Two huge vampiric warriors stood guard on either side of the doorway, a measure that Saan’s father, Sebastien Galaurus, the Demesne’s leader, had commanded. No one but Ilea, the healers and Saan’s sister, Iridea, would be permitted to cross the threshold. “Where is my Mate?” Ilea demanded.
“In his study, my lady,” the vampire answered instantly.
Ilea picked up the skirting of her gown and rushed through the richly carpeted halls of the elaborate underground Demesne haven she’d shared with her Mate for centuries. By the time she reached Sebastien’s study, her flaming hair had come undone from its tight chignon and her face had grown hot. Saan was dying and a tiny thought she’d kept buried for the past two nights would find Sebastien’s ear whether he wished to hear or not. Drawing breath, Ilea whipped the black double doors nearly from their hinges to stride to the dark, massive desk in front of her Mate. A small group of the Demesne’s vampire warriors were with him but they stepped swiftly from her path.
“Leave us,” she ordered.
The warriors of the Demesne were unused to taking orders from their leader’s Mate, whom they rarely saw, but left after Sebastien gave them a fast nod. Hearing his Mate’s pounding heart, Sebastien sat quickly, as if the air had been knocked from his lungs. “Has our son passed?” he asked quietly.
“He lives but he may well pass before the morning unless something is done,” Ilea gripped the edge of the desk and leaned over it, into her husband’s perfectly sculpted face.
“Call your brother at the Sanctum and seek his advice,” she commanded. “Ask him to send one of the angelic healers. It is the only thing that can save our son.”
Sebastien had thought this might be requested of him, but he had also expected Saan to recover, having his mother’s daemon blood and his own vampiric blood.
“Andrieu is not my brother. I cannot contact anyone at the Sanctum,” he said.
Ilea pulled her hand back and brought it forward in a mind-numbingly fast arc to connect with Sebastien’s jaw. Her Mate’s head bounced backward against the high back of his carved chair, yet he didn’t lift a hand. “You could not have heard what I asked,” Ilea said. “Call Andrieu and ask…no, Sebastien …beg him to send an angelic healer. Tonight.” Ilea’s eyes were changing to the silver swirls associated with strong emotion among daemons. “Do it,” she hissed.
“Has he grown worse? Have the healers found nothing to help?” Sebastien’s voice was barely above a whisper. He knew the answer.
“Must I strike you again to get you to understand my words? Saan is dying. He grows weaker as we speak. The healers have done all that is possible. There is no hope but an angel’s blood!” Ilea’s voice rose, but she couldn’t control herself. “Only the blood of an angel can clear his body of this venom that steals his life tonight, Sebastien. Call Andrieu Grey at the Sanctum.”
Sebastien sat back, staring at the daemon he loved. She was as he’d never seen her, with her hair undone and her face in flames. “Ilea,” he began, “an angel’s blood will kill him. It is poison to all that have daemon blood.”
“He will die, Sebastien! If the angel’s blood hastens his end, he will be released from this torment!” Ilea’s voice cracked with emotion and she dropped her head as a tear fell to the desk’s surface. “If you cannot bring yourself to call Andrieu, call Miriel. She has a child…a boy…and a stepchild…her daughter…she will understand a mother’s pain.” She raised her face to him, wishing she could will him to do as she asked. Had he been less strong willed, she might have glamoured him to it. “See him yourself,” she implored. “Go to him.”
Sebastien rose to his full height, took his Mate’s small hand and moved for the hall. The tight cluster of Demesne warriors in the hall parted, but Sebastien motioned them to follow him. In moments, he was at the foot of Saan’s bed, while the warriors waited outside the young male’s rooms. Ilea turned on a small lamp, bringing light to the bedroom. Saan was writhing but settled as his mother touched his shoulder and whispered something to him. A small blood tear had formed at the edge of his eye. Ilea wiped it away with her fingertip. Rubbing her hands on her skirts, she looked at her Mate’s hard face. Quickly, she tugged the duvet away from Saan’s chest, which was now streaked with skinny ribbons of blood where his skin and the tissue beneath were dying. The leader of the Demesne waved a hand at her and she replaced the duvet, searching his face, waiting for the words she wanted to hear so badly. He motioned her to the hallway, where his warriors stood, expecting orders, but unable to imagine what they would be told to do. Sebastien, who commanded all and intimidated most, took his Mate into his arms.
Just then, Iridea, their daughter, rounded the hall’s bend, nearly colliding with her parents and the Demesne warriors. She’d worn one of the long, ornate gowns her mother favored, almost as a good will offering to her parents, who often disapproved of her jeans and loose hair. Not understanding their tight embrace, she thought Saan had made some improvement.
“Is he better?” she asked.
Sebastien shook his head, as he took her into his arms too. Holding both females tightly, he said, “Go to your brother, Iridea. It appears that his illness is coming to crisis. He will die or survive in the coming hours.”
As Ilea’s breath hitched and her tears fell against Sebastien’s chest, Iridea pulled free to do as she’d been told. She would stay with Saan to the end or to see him recover.
Making eye contact with two of his most loyal warriors over his Mate’s head, Sebastien lifted Ilea’s face. “The blood of an angel will kill him Ilea. Saan may still overcome this illness,” he said wearily.
The words burned like lava in Ilea’s chest. Sebastien wasn’t going to contact the Sanctum even though it might be the only chance for Saan. Immediately, she began to struggle. The sleeve of her gown tore exposing a pale shoulder.
Sebastien held her. He had no wish to hurt her, but he could not let her go. “Saan’s life or his death are not mine to com…”
“Yes, they are… you bastard…you filthy bastard…you can save him…,” Ilea shrieked.
Ilea’s words and struggles were cut short as Sebastien wrapped one heavily muscled arm around her tiny waist and pulled her to his chest so tightly that her feet left the carpet. He raised a hard palm in front of her face, staring as deeply into her eyes as he could, while she writhed against his expansive chest. “Ilea…listen to me …Ilea… hear my voice Ilea…” Within seconds, she slumped, unconscious in his arms.
Two Demesne vampires rushed to their leader to help him with Ilea’s slight weight. Sebastien lifted her into the arms of Zeris, one of his most trusted warriors. Once the vampire held Ilea aloft, Sebastien smoothed strands of red hair from her face.
“Take her to her rooms and lock her in. No one is to see her like this,” he said, before going back into Saan’s room.
Iridea sat at Saan’s bedside, as her mother had. In the soft light, Sebastien noted the resemblance between brother and sister and recalled the unexpected joy his children had brought to him. He’d had little to do with their rearing and although his relationship with Ilea was sometimes difficult, she’d always been a good mother. A strong mother, he thought. Moving closer, he saw tears on his daughter’s face, silver in her wide eyes.
“Iridea…,” he started.
The
