Shadow's Claim (16 page)

And now this?

“Is that another vampire?” Morgana murmured in an intrigued tone.

Bettina opened her eyes and drew a shocked breath.

There Daciano was, striding toward her, his face grim with determination. The light of the grand torches sheened off his black hair.

Tonight his clothing was more regal, the fine lines and cloth looking like they’d cost a pretty karat. He also wore a full-length trench coat of black leather that fitted flawlessly over his broad shoulders and narrow hips.

The fog seemed to part for him; the crowd certainly did. Even among the strapping Abaddonae males, his towering body stood out. He could have traced, but he chose to walk, heightening her suspense.

Last night, she’d asked herself,
What foreign assassin would dare target a Deathly One in his home plane of Abaddon?

This one. Trehan Daciano. A professional killer.

This isn’t happening.
Why, gods, would he return? And why
enter
? Why not wait to finish his mission until
after
the tournament?

Her gaze slid to Caspion, standing slack jawed outside the ring.

Then she remembered: once seen like this, Daciano could
never
return to his home.

No wonder Cas was stunned!

The vampire hadn’t spared him a glance, his attention solely on Bettina. Initially the Dacian’s eyes had been a deep green. Yet when his gaze locked on her, they flooded with black.

As they’d been last night.

With his every step closer, awareness pricked her senses—the heat of the flames, the scent of her goblet
of wine, the way the damp night air clung to her bare arms.

All she could think over and over:
That vampire was in my bed, touching me as no other had before.

As he closed the distance, she felt increasingly weak and breathless, as if a flash-fever had taken hold.

How could merely looking at someone make her react
physically
? One word arose in her consciousness.
Dalit.
In Demonish, it meant
lightning
—in addition to another quaint, old-timey meaning.

“Who is that
gorgeous
male?” Morgana asked.

Bettina had never heard her sound so interested in a stranger.

The vampire wasn’t gorgeous to Bettina, but he was . . . striking.

“Oh, my gold, is he a Forbearer?” Morgana asked.

With his clear eyes, Daciano looked like one. No one would ever guess he was from the fabled Realm of Blood and Mist.

Once he neared the lower grandstand, Bettina subtly shook her head, warning him away, but he didn’t break his stride.

Earlier when Caspion had approached the sign-in table, the crowd had cheered for one of their own. As the vampire approached, everyone grew silent.

Crickets. A dog barked in the distance. A demon cub gave a cry.

“Your name?” Raum asked in puzzlement.

“I’m called the Prince of Shadow,” Daciano answered in that resonating voice.

“Where do you hail from? What is your standard?”

“I hail from nowhere you know.” The vampire retrieved a beautiful antique-looking banner of red and
gray from his coat, handing it to Raum. “This is my standard. I enter for the hand of Bettina.”

He can’t lie? Then he’s not here just to kill Cas? He wants to marry me?
She just stopped herself from fanning her face.

Why can’t I catch my breath?

Her godfather cast him a studying glance. Raum couldn’t bar the vampire entrance, but surely he would demand more information.

Instead Raum examined the standard, returned it, then offered Daciano the blade and quill. “Well then, Prince of Nowhere. Sign your name.”

Still holding her gaze, the vampire dragged the blade across his palm, blood welling. Without hesitation, he signed, never looking down at the contract, never taking his penetrating eyes off her.

Bettina could tell Morgana was glancing from the vampire to her and back, but didn’t acknowledge her godmother’s curiosity.

Once Daciano’s entry was complete, Raum announced, “The lists are filled! The tournament has officially begun.”

Cheering sounded from the spectators before Raum quieted them once more. “Now, on the first night of the tournament, we will have a melee. All competitors will go in unarmed, race to reach strategically placed weapons, then kill at will.”

“Oh, I’ve always enjoyed a spirited melee!” Morgana said, as if she were talking about a potato-sack race. Then she gazed past Bettina, her eyes gleaming with approval—no doubt ogling the vampire.

When Bettina refused to look at him, Morgana tapped her chin with a metal claw. “You don’t appear
to be an
afterthought
with that one, dearest freakling. You appear to be the
only
thought.”

I’ve done it then.
Trehan had stood up in front of thousands of gaping Loreans, pledging himself to winning Bettina. He’d stepped from his comfortable shadows directly into the spotlight, under the crushing weight of the crowd’s scrutiny.

No longer was he the enforcer of Dacian laws. No longer did he live among books, merely
reading
about social interactions. He wasn’t just an observer; he was present and involved, with an unshakable purpose:
I will possess her.

He’d left behind all he loved, but he’d also shucked off his deadening existence. And at this moment, excitement over the future outweighed his regret of the past.

This close to Bettina, he could scent her light perfume and sweet skin, could hear her shallow breaths as she studiously ignored him.

Yes, I will possess her—and I’d do far worse than this for the privilege.

He almost looked forward to battling for her favor. Killing was what he did, was all he knew. And Caspion? He was a mere obstacle to be dealt with when the time came.

Somehow Trehan would devise a way to seduce her once more.
I’m betting everything that she’ll respond again.
Perhaps he should do as the madman Lothaire did, and bargain with her?

Before the tournament began tomorrow night, Trehan would ready himself, gorging on blood and perhaps finally sleeping for an hour or two. Many of
the demon lords would imbibe this eve, were already drunken. Tomorrow, they’d be compromised. Trehan would have another advantage.
Not that I’ll need it—

“But there’s a twist,” Raum announced. “Night one . . . begins in five minutes.”

Gasps sounded. Those drunken lords sputtered their protests.

“Two hundred and twenty-eight will enter the Iron Ring before the gate slams shut,” Raum said, his voice booming with finality. “You’ll kill until the great horn blows. Though many of our contestants will never get to hear it. . . .”

A
s the competitors filed off to the ring, Bettina chewed on a fingernail, the fingers of her other hand drumming.

Just moments ago after Raum’s announcement, Caspion had traced to her side, smoothed a braid behind her ear, then bravely set off to the warriors’ sanctum.

Daciano had strode off as well, yet he lingered outside the ring. Awaiting something from her?

“So, Raum, who do you think will be the bettors’ favorite?” Morgana asked.

Raum dragged his face from his tankard. “No Abaddonae would bet against their own.”

Cas, my demon, who’s about to be locked in that cage!
Bettina started on another nail.

Morgana slapped her hand down. “I believe I’ll put karats on the clear-eyed vampire.”

Bettina’s gaze darted to Daciano. His overall demeanor
was
bored
. But she could see his cunning gaze taking in his enemies. She suspected she was about to witness the lethality she’d only sensed before.

Would he target Cas immediately?

Turning to Bettina, Morgana said, “I believe the Prince of Shadow is particularly motivated. He looks like his heart is in this. His
beating
heart.”

Bettina stifled a gasp. Of course Morgana had figured out who Daciano’s Bride was. But Bettina couldn’t think about that now.

“The leech is blooded then?” Raum asked, taking another gulp from his mug. “Wonder what his Bride has to say about this?”

She’s pissed! And terrified for Caspion.
“If Cas can trace, he’ll be safe in there, right?”

Morgana snorted. Raum uneasily pulled at the collar of his breastplate.

“Couldn’t he just continually teleport around the ring if he wanted to?” Bettina asked. “Or if he got injured?”

“If he wasn’t caught fast by a stronger opponent, then yes,” Raum said. “But tracing is not without its perils. To strike an accurate blow you have to materialize fully for a split second. And whenever you disappear, you risk losing sight of your opponent, something no warrior is keen to do.”

Morgana added, “Plus you run the chance that someone will predict where you will reappear and be waiting with, say, a raised mystical sword. I killed my last demon that way.” She made her voice like an innocent girl’s as she said, “Oh, no, please stop with your tracing! It’s confusing my feeble female mind!” She abruptly made a chopping motion against the table. “Then SLASH.”

Raum looked unimpressed with her theatrics. “It’s also physically draining, especially for the injured. The ability is a great advantage, but it also brings great risk.”

Talking around another fingernail, Bettina asked, “If a competitor gets into trouble, what’s to stop him from teleporting back home or something?”

“The blood pact they signed.”

So Cas was well and truly trapped? If he . . . died, she didn’t know how she’d recover.

The highlights of her history with him flashed through her mind—all the things he’d done to win her heart. Cas taking her to her first baseball game and patiently explaining the rules. Teaching her to drive a mortal car. Escorting her to fashion shows and art exhibits, even when he was so bored he could barely stay awake.

He was young, and sometimes he could do stupid things, but he was bighearted. She’d recently found out that he’d been secretly giving food and clothing to other foundlings, using some of his newfound influence to set up apprenticeships for older orphans.

Everyone was always so dazzled by his looks that they never realized he had substance—and
loyalty
. She knew he would give his life to protect hers. . . .

Bettina’s reverie was interrupted when one of Morgana’s Inferi hastened over to the queen with a written message. The sorceress snapped, “What fresh hell is this?” then tore open the black seal.

In a completely
un
smooth attempt to be smooth, Bettina stretched her arms, leaning back for a look at the page. She caught a few words—“portents,” “Gilded One,” “rising,” and “Accession”—before Morgana wadded
up the paper so hard her metal claws dug into her palm.

The Gilded One was La Dorada, the Queen of Evil—and Morgana’s nemesis, thought to be dead.

With a curse, Morgana rose, shoving her chair back with a wave of her hand.

Bettina dared to ask, “La Dorada is rising?”

In a distracted tone, Morgana answered, “Do excuse me. Someone needs to die.” Over her shoulder, she told Raum, “In my absence, keep this tournament . . . interesting.”

“Absence?” he sputtered. “You can’t leave! You’re the cohost!” He leapt up and followed her, arguing with her as she and her train of Inferi hastened toward her travel portal.

As soon as Bettina was alone, the vampire traced beside her and grasped her hand.

Aware of the spectators watching her, she tried to appear calm as she hissed, “Release me!” between gritted teeth.

He didn’t. His hand was hot, swallowing hers.

She inhaled his crisp scent, and memories of the night before overwhelmed her—which infuriated her. “You told me you wouldn’t come back for me!”

“I said I didn’t
plan
on returning for you. I’ve since changed my mind.” His eyes were now green, his gaze narrowed with intent. “Listen to me, female. Your Caspion will live or die this eve based on my actions.”

She raised her chin. “So certain you’ll defeat him? I’m not convinced. And if you did strike him down, I’d hate you forever.”