As he started up the stairs, Daemon saw the sharp hunter’s look in the other Warlord Prince’s eyes, saw the moment the man guessed something dangerous was climbing the stairs.

A White-Jeweled Warlord rushed at the Warlord Prince, forcing him to turn toward the enemy who was attacking.

Daemon climbed the stairs. Even exhausted, the Warlord Prince would have no trouble with the Warlord, and it would keep him occupied a little while longer.

No need to hunt for Karla’s room. The Ring of Honor led him unerringly, the throbbing against his organ irritating him enough to hone a temper that had already risen to the killing edge.

The door stood open. He saw a hacked-up woman lying on a blood-soaked carpet. He saw five men sending blast after blast of power against the shield surrounding another woman. Karla.

He didn’t know who the men were—and didn’t care. Reaching up from the depth of the Black, he slipped under the men’s inner barriers and unleashed iced rage, turning their brains into gray dust and consuming their psychic strength, finishing the kill.

He was across the room before they fell. Kneeling beside Karla, he dropped the sight shield and reached out cautiously.

The shield around her held a feral, deadly hunger.

Not sure how to get through the shield, and wondering what he might unleash if he did it incorrectly, Daemon took a deep breath and brought his hand a little closer.

A flick of power against his palm. A tasting. An acceptance.

His hand passed, unharmed, through the shield.

“Karla,” he said as his hand closed on her arm. “Karla.” Her rasping effort to breathe told him she was still alive. But if she’d gone so deep into a healing sleep that she couldn’t hear him…

“Kiss kiss,” Karla rasped.

Relief washed through him. He leaned over her so that she could see him without trying to move her head. “Kiss kiss.”

“Poisoned,” she said. “Can’t identify. Bad.”

Pushing her robe aside, Daemon laid his left hand on her chest and sent out a careful psychic probe. His knowledge of healing Craft was limited, but he knew about poisons. And he recognized at least part of this one.

“Get your hand…off my…tit,” Karla said.

“Don’t be bitchy,” Daemon replied mildly, probing a little more. Her body was fighting it far better than he would have thought possible, but she wouldn’t survive without more help than he could give her. He hesitated. “Karla…”

“About…three hours left. Body…can’t fight more…”

Riding the Black Winds, it had taken him almost two hours to get there from Scelt. Pandar and Centauran were closer, but he didn’t know Jonah or Sceron as well as he knew Khardeen, and he didn’t know if the satyr or centaur Healers could deal with this poison.

Besides, Jaenelle would most likely head for Scelt. And that decided him.