She always had a destination, although she never seemed to reach it. No matter what paths they took through the gardens, they always ended up at a narrow path that led into a heavily overgrown alcove. Her steps would falter when she reached the place, and then she would rush past it, breathing hard, as if she’d been running for a long time. He wondered if something had happened to her there, something that frightened her, repelled her, and yet drew her back.

One morning when he was lost in thought, thoroughly absorbed with the puzzle his Lady had left him, he realized they’d stopped walking and Wilhelmina had been watching him for some time. They were standing by the narrow path.

“I want to go in there,” she said defiantly, her hands clenched at her sides.

Daemon bit the inside of his lip to keep his face neutral. It was the first spark of life she’d shown, and he didn’t want it squelched by a smile that might be misunderstood as condescension. “All right.”

She looked surprised, obviously expecting an argument. With a timid smile, she led him down the path and through a trellis arch.

The small garden within the garden was completely surrounded by large yews that looked as if they hadn’t been trimmed on this side in several years. A maple tree dominated one end, girdled by a circular iron bench that had been white once, but the paint was now peeling badly. In front of the yews were the remains of flower beds, tangled, weedy, uncared for. But the thing that made his breath catch, made his heart pound too fast, too hard, was the bed of witchblood in the far corner.

Flower or weed, witchblood was beautiful, deadly, and—so legend said—indestructible. The bloodred flowers, with their black throats and black-tipped petals, were in full bloom, as they always were from the first breath of spring to the last dying sigh of autumn.

Wilhelmina stood by the bed, hugging herself and shivering.

Daemon walked over to the bed, trying to understand the pain and hope in Wilhelmina’s face. Witchblood supposedly grew only where a witch’s blood had been spilled violently or where a witch who had met a violent death was buried.

Daemon stepped back, reeling.

Even with the fresh air and the other garden smells, the dark psychic scent was strong there. Sweet Darkness, it was strong there.

“My sister planted these,” Wilhelmina said abruptly, her voice quivering. “One for each. As remembrance.” She bit her lip, her blue eyes wide and frightened as she studied the flowers.

“It’s all right,” Daemon said soothingly, trying to calm the panic rising in her while fighting his own. “I know what witchblood is and what it stands for.” He searched for words that might comfort them both. “This is a special place because of it.”

“The gardeners won’t come here. They say it’s haunted. Do you think it’s haunted? I hope it is.”

Daemon considered his next words carefully. “Where’s your sister?”