Jaenelle lifted one eyebrow, striving for amusement.

Daemon knelt in front of her, holding her hands. “Listen to me, Jaenelle. You’re in danger here, great danger.”

“I’ve always been in danger here, Daemon,” Jaenelle said quietly in her Witch voice.

“More so now. You don’t understand what’s going to happen here.”

“Don’t I?” Her voice was whispery thunder.

“Jaenelle…” Daemon closed his eyes and leaned forward until his head rested against her small, too thin, fragile chest. He felt her heart beating. It made him desperate. He would do anything now to keep that heart beating. “Jaenelle, please. The Priest…The Priest would let you stay with him, wouldn’t he? I mean, you wouldn’t have to live in the Dark Realm. He’d find another place, like he found for Tersa, wouldn’t he? Jaenelle…sweetheart…you can’t stay here anymore.”

“I have to, Daemon,” Jaenelle said gently. Her fingers stroked his head, tangling in his hair.

“Why?” Daemon cried. He raised his head, his eyes pleading. “I know you care for your family—”

“Family?” Jaenelle let out a small, bitter laugh. “My family lives in Hell, Prince.”

“Then why won’t you go? If you don’t think the Priest will take you, at least go to Cassandra. A Sanctuary offers some protection.”

“No.”

“Why?”

Jaenelle backed away from him, troubled. “Saetan asked me to live with him, and I promised him I would, but I can’t yet.”

Daemon leaned back on his heels. This was brutal, and it was blackmail, but she wasn’t leaving him any choice. “I know about Briarwood.”

Jaenelle shuddered. “Then you know why I can’t go yet.”

Daemon grabbed her with bruising force and shook her. “No, I don’t know why. If I tell him—”

Jaenelle looked at him, her eyes huge and horrified. “Please don’t tell him, Daemon,” she whispered. “Please.”

“Why?” he snapped. “He won’t turn on you because of what’s been done. Do you really think he’ll stop caring for you if he finds out?”

“He might.”

Daemon leaned back, stunned. Since it made no difference to him, except that it made him want to protect her more, he’d assumed Saetan would feel the same. Would it make a difference?

“Daemon,” Jaenelle pleaded, “if he finds out I’ve been…sick…if he thinks I’m not good enough to teach the Craft to…”

“What do you mean, ‘sick’?” But he knew. A hospital for “emotionally disturbed” children. A child who told stories about unicorns and dragons, who visited friends no one else saw because, wherever they existed, it wasn’t in Terreille. A child whose sense of reality had been twisted in Briarwood for so many years she didn’t know what to believe or whom she could trust.

Daemon held her close, stroking her hair. He felt her tears on his neck and his heart bled. She was only twelve. For all her Craft, for all her magic, for all her strength, she was still only twelve. She believed all the lies they’d told her. Even though she struggled against them, even though she tried to doubt the words they’d pounded into her for so many years, she believed their lies. And because she believed, she was more afraid of losing her mentor and friend than she was of losing her life.