Bettina felt the tiniest sliver of hope, something to fight for. Surely Cas returned her feelings, saw her as more than a little sister.

"Will she live?" Raum bit out. "She's not hardy like a demoness, not strong like we are."

She hadn't been a true demon before. Now she was no longer a true sorceress. They took my root power. My soul.

A male she didn't recognize asked, "Has she frozen into her immortality?" The physic?

Cas answered, "She was on the cusp. Maybe by now . . ."

"We need a Sorceri healer. If we act quickly, the princess could recover," the physic said, but hastily qualified his statement: "Her body could recover from this."

What did that mean?

Raum ordered, "Find Tina's godmother! Don't return from the Sorceri plane without Morgana!" Coming into Bettina's line of vision, Raum yelled to Cas, "I should never have let her go! I was too lenient! Things will change in Abaddon!" His eyes were glinting, his voice choked up. The crusty old warrior was at a loss. He began ramming his horns against a stone wall, roaring to everyone, "Heed my words! We return to olden ways!"

Free of the attack, Bettina's body started trying to regenerate, nerves sparking to life once more. Pain erupted all over her, blistering waves of it.

Even in the midst of her escalating agony and lingering horror, the words olden ways struck fear in her heart.

Prince Trehan Daciano shot awake in the middle of the day, bolting upright from his pallet of furs.

He gazed around in confusion, seeing his usual surroundings-shelves of books, weapons, his sideboard with carafes of mead-laced blood.

Though he'd experienced no nightmare, sleep had been snatched from him, replaced by a marked unease. With each moment, he grew even more on edge, a feeling like . . . like emptiness settling in his chest.

Like dread. So different from his usual numbness.

Brows drawn, he rose, tracing across the spacious room to one of the curtained balconies.

These grand apartments had once been the royal library. Centuries ago, he'd moved in and never moved out, haunting this place until no other member of the family would enter.

Time and history seeped from these familiar stones. He knew every crag and groove as well as he knew his own grim reflection. Like these stones, I quietly endure the ages.

Drawing back the thick curtain, he gazed outside. From this height, Trehan could survey far into the Realm of Blood and Mist, the secreted lands of the mighty Dacians.

The royal city below was still at this hour. Only the sound of Dacia's bubbling blood fountains could be heard.

Across from his residence stood the majestic black stone castle, the heart of the realm-abandoned without a king. How many of his kinsmen had perished trying to seize that keep? How much deceit and murder surrounded it?

The warring houses of the royal family had once boasted hundreds of members each-now dwindled down to a handful.

For an immortal family, they knew death so well.

Trehan was the last born to the House of Shadow, the assassin arm of the family. Though he was a potential contender for the crown-along with four of his lethal cousins-he had no real aspiration to seize it. A quiet loner by nature, he loathed spectacle and attention, was content to blend into the shadows.

He only wanted to perform his duty. For nearly a millennium, he'd been the enforcer of law, a merciless assassin.

As his long-dead father had oft told him, "You are the sword of the kingdom, Trehan. Dacia will be your family, your friend, your mistress, the grand love of your life. That is your lot, Son. Want for nothing else. And you will never be disappointed."

Trehan had once foolishly entertained secret hopes, but he'd eventually embraced his father's teachings. As was logical.

I want for nothing. This was his lot, to await down here in the earth until Mother Dacia needed his sword. To strike, execute, then return.

So why this unaccountable restlessness? This sudden . . . frustration?

It was similar to that niggling feeling of some task forgotten. Except this feeling had teeth, gnawing at his chest.

And why should Trehan have a sense of something left undone? He always did everything that was expected of him. Ever cold, ever rational Trehan couldn't explain this.

What have I left undone? Rubbing a palm over his chest, Trehan crossed to one of countless bookshelves. He selected a recently acquired explorer's narrative, adjourning to his favorite seat before the fire, planning to lose himself in tales of life outside this mountain, of emotions he never felt, and interactions he never experienced.

Not on this day.

After rereading the same page a dozen times, he closed the tome, staring into the flames as he struggled to identify the hollow ache in his dormant heart.

His fingers tightened on the book, sinking into the cover. Gods damn it, what have I left undone?

Yet the dread only mounted. Then came one word, a whisper in his mind. . . .

Protect.

The Plane of Abaddon,

Demonarchy of the Deathly Ones

THREE MONTHS LATER

Bettina, you don't understand," Caspion muttered as he gazed out into the night. He clutched the balcony rail with one hand and a silver mug of demon brew with the other. "I've done something that I can't undo, something that even I can't talk my way out of."

Bettina stood beside him at the rail, drink in hand as well. "Oh, for gold's sake, what could possibly be so bad?"

Bad was recovering for months from a savage beating, then returning to "olden ways."

Bad was being offered up as a tournament prize by one's godparents.