“Under the circumstances, I don’t think Lady SaDiablo will mind,” Cornelia replied sweetly. Then her voice became a whip crack. “Begin!”

Daemon heard the lash whistle before it struck. For a brief moment, a strange shiver of pleasure ran through him before his body recognized the pain. He drew in a ragged breath. “One.”

Everything has a price. “Two.” A Blood Law, or part of a code of honor? “Three.” He’d never heard of the High Priest of the Hourglass until he’d found one of Surreal’s warnings, but there was something vaguely familiar about that other mind. “Four.” Who was the Priest? “Five.” A Warlord Prince…“Six.”…like himself…“Seven.”…who wore the Black Jewels. “Eight.” Everything has a price. “Nine.” Who had taught him that? “Ten.” Older. More experienced. “Eleven.” To the east of him. “Twelve.” And she was to the west. “Thirteen.” He didn’t know who she was, but he did know what she was. “Fourteen. Fifteen.”

Everything has a price.

The guards dragged him back to his room and locked the door.

Daemon fell heavily onto his hands and knees. Pressing his forehead to the floor, he tried to dull the burning pain in his back, buttocks, and legs long enough to get to his feet. Fifty strokes, each one slicing through his flesh. Fifty strokes. But no more. He hadn’t missed the count once, despite the bursts of pain that Cornelia had sent through the Ring of Obedience to distract him.

Slowly gathering his feet under him, he pushed himself to an almost upright position and shuffled to the bathroom, unable to stifle the moaning sob that accompanied each step.

When he finally reached the bathroom, he braced one trembling hand against the wall and turned the water taps to fill the bath with warm water. His vision kept blurring, and his body shook with pain and exhaustion. It took three tries to call in the small leather case that held his stash of healing supplies. Once he had it open, it took a minute for his vision to clear sufficiently to find the jar he wanted.

When combined with water, the powdered herbs cleansed wounds, numbed pain, and allowed the healing process to begin—if he could keep his mind fixed enough, and if he could withdraw far enough into himself to gather the power, the Craft he would need to heal the torn flesh.

Daemon’s lips twisted in a grim smile as he turned off the water. If he sent a summons along the Black, if he asked the Priest for help, would he get it? Unlikely. Not an enemy. Not yet. But Surreal had done well to leave those notes warning him about the Priest.

Daemon let out a cry as the jar slipped from his hands and shattered on the bathroom floor. He sank to his knees, hissing as a piece of glass sliced him, and stared at the powder, tears of pain and frustration welling in his eyes. Without the powder to help heal the wounds, he might still be able to heal them to some extent, still be able to stop the bleeding…but he would scar. And he didn’t need a mirror to know what he would look like.