He opened his eyes when Daemon sat back.

“If someone hadn’t taught her how to contain an injected poison, she’d be dead by now,” Daemon said.

“Her mother is a Black Widow.” The bites looked bigger, darker. “Isn’t there anyone . . .” Jared’s voice faded.

Daemon got off the bed. He called in two leather carrying boxes, opened them, and started looking through the various jars. “I know enough healing Craft.” Amusement and something else Jared couldn’t identify flickered in Daemon’s eyes. “And poisons are an interest of mine. Those bites have to be opened and the venom drawn out. If you don’t have a strong stomach, you’ve got five minutes to acquire one.”

Jared swallowed hard. Frowning, he gingerly touched his throat.

Daemon gave him a knowing look before calling in a mortar and pestle. “There’s no physical damage. Well, not much. I didn’t think I’d actually have to crush your throat to convince you to be reasonable. There are many kinds of illusions, Jared.”

Jared winced when his fingers brushed against one of the cuts made by the phantom nails. “But you would have.”

Daemon poured a jar of dried herbs into the mortar. “If you’d done something to harm the Gray Lady, yes, I would have.”

“Why are you so interested in the Gray Lady?”

Daemon’s golden eyes turned to hard, yellow stones. “Because she stands against Dorothea.”

“There’s nothing more we can do,” Daemon said wearily, wiping his hands on a soiled towel.

Jared braced his forearms on the bed, too tired to sit up straight.

They had done all they could, but had they done enough?

They’d worked for hours, applying herb poultices to draw the venom, draining the pus and fluid that Daemon had explained were the result of the healing Craft Lia had used. They’d gone through the cycle three times. In between those cycles, Daemon stroked Lia’s body, soothing her while she burned with fever. Sure that Reyna had never used her hands quite that way, Jared had clenched his teeth and leashed his emotions while he assisted by doing all the mundane tasks required.

At the end of it, though, the swelling had gone down and the ugly, malignant look of the bites had faded to the color of pale bruises. Lia was breathing easily and no longer feverish.

Jared smoothed the already smooth covers and stood up. He swayed from fatigue.

“Here,” Daemon said, calling in a long dressing robe. “Get cleaned up. I’ll see about getting something to eat.”

Jared took the robe. Maybe a hot bath would ease his aching muscles enough to convince his body to keep going. “I’m not hungry.”

“Being tired is no excuse for being an idiot.” Daemon finished putting the empty jars back into the leather carrying cases. He vanished them, along with the mortar and pestle. “If you expect to be of any use to her tomorrow when she needs you, you’ll eat and get some rest tonight.”