“Surreal?” Daemon called softly.

A sob answered him. The Gray wall dropped.

Daemon ran toward her. Surreal waited for him, tears streaming down her face.

“I wasn’t in time,” she sobbed as Daemon took the sheet-wrapped bundle from her shaking arms and held it close to his chest. “I wasn’t in time.”

Daemon turned back the way he’d come. “Cassandra must have a room here somewh—”

*Go to the Altar, namesake.*

*She needs—*

*The Altar.*

Daemon turned again, racing toward the Altar that lay in the center of the Sanctuary. Surreal ran ahead to push open the Altar room’s stiff wrought-iron gate. Daemon rushed in and carefully laid Jaenelle on the Altar.

“We need some light,” he said, desperation making his voice harsh.

Witchlight bloomed overhead.

Cassandra stood behind the Altar. Her Black Jewels glowed. Her emerald eyes stabbed at him.

Daemon looked down and saw the blood on his shirt.

*Courage, namesake.*

“So,” Cassandra said quietly, her eyes never leaving Daemon’s face, “you’re both here.”

Daemon nodded as he swiftly unwrapped the sheet.

Cassandra clamped a hand over her mouth, stifling a scream.

Blood gushed between Jaenelle’s legs. Daemon’s hands were slick with it as his fingers rested at the junction of her thighs and became a channel for a delicate tendril of power and the little healing Craft he knew. He searched, probed.

Witches bled more on their Virgin Night than other women, and dark-Jeweled witches most of all. They paid for their strength with moments of fragility, moments when the balance of power shifted to the male’s advantage and left them vulnerable.

But even that didn’t explain this much blood.

Searching, probing.

Icy shock ran through him when he found the answer. Glacial rage followed.

“They used something to tear her open. The bastards tore her open.” He slid his hands over her torso, over the cuts and bruises. *How much healing Craft do you know?* he snapped at Saetan.

*I have a great deal of knowledge, but even less of the healing gift than you. It’s not enough, Daemon.*

*Then who has enough?*

Jaenelle’s blank eyes stared at him.

Daemon reached to cup her face in his hands.

“No,” Cassandra said, coming around the Altar. “Let me. A Sister won’t be a threat.”

Daemon hated her for saying it. Hated her even more because, right now, it was true.

*Let her try, namesake,* Saetan said, forcing Daemon to step back.

Cassandra pressed her fingers against Jaenelle’s temples and stared into the unblinking eyes. After a minute, she stepped back and wrapped her arms around herself, as if needing comfort. Her lips quivered. “She’s out of reach,” she said in a hoarse, defeated whisper.

It didn’t mean anything. Jaenelle was stronger than the rest of them. She could descend further. It didn’t mean anything.

But Tersa’s vision of the shattered crystal chalice mocked him. You know, it said. You know why she doesn’t answer.

“No.” Daemon wasn’t sure if the denial was his or Saetan’s.

Surreal stepped forward. Her face was ashen, but her gold-green eyes flashed with determination. “The girl Rose said they’d given her too much medicine and she couldn’t get out of the misty place. Probably a vile mixture of safframate and a sedative.”