Shadow's Claim

Chapter 24

Discovering more about Bettina was critical—because Trehan was failing to coax her attentions away from that fucking demon.

He traced back to his tent, his mind focused on the task ahead: access her memories.

Which meant sleep. He was running out of time to complete all the things left for him to do. If he’d turned his back on his kingdom only to lose his Bride as well . . . ? To have neither in his life?

He would have no identity. No future. I will not be who I was.

Nor who I want to be.

Must sleep. Removing his sword, he lay back on his bed, struggling to dictate the direction of his thoughts. Do not replay how she looked coming in your hand, Trehan. For gods sakes, do not revisit the slick heat you just reveled in.

But her scent lingered on the furs, tantalizing him. Last night, her hair had fanned out over his bed as he’d rocked his shaft against her sex.

When only the hot, soaked silk of her panties had barred him entrance to her core . . .

Too much! He groaned, his shaft straining against the confines of his pants. Once he unfastened them and his length sprang free, he grunted in relief.

He took one of Bettina’s gloves and wrapped the cool silk around his aching length, pretending it was her palm gripping him. Should’ve kept her panties.

As he began to stroke, he fantasized that she told him, “You know you can do anything to me, Trehan. I’m yours—I always will be.”

Only to him would she make those promises. . . .

His fangs sharpened, dripping in his mouth for her. He dragged his tongue over them, sucking on his blood, pretending it was hers.

Like a true vampire.

Trehan had begun remembering more from his youth; as a lad, he’d stroked himself to fantasies of sinking his fangs into a trembling female while coming inside her. He recalled that particular fantasy could make him ejaculate until his back bowed.

Now he imagined piercing Bettina’s slim neck. Drawing her scorching essence into me as she writhed from her orgasm. Her sex would squeeze my cock with greedy tugs. As she gave her blood, her body would demand my seed—

When he began to spend, he yelled her name; his back bowed violently.

When he wiped himself clean and redressed, he shuddered, grieved to be parted from her.

When he drifted to sleep, he knew he’d dream of her.

My memories? Or hers?

He woke not even an hour later, straight from reverie. Though he hadn’t experienced the memory he’d sought, he’d seen something he could scarcely describe.

The world through Bettina’s eyes.

Her memories were . . . sublime. She noted details he would have missed, searching out beauty in everything from a spider’s web to a weathered basket. When he compared her way of seeing to his, he felt as if he had a layer of film over his eyes.

He was awakening. After living so long as staid, boring Trehan, he craved more.

He’d also learned much about her personality, confirming all the facets he’d already admired. Indeed, she was remarkably intelligent, she was sensitive, and zeii, she was lusty.

That night in his tent, she’d viewed him with an artist’s eye. And she’d liked what she saw. Just as he’d observed, she’d been happy.

She’d marveled at his erection, musing what it would be like to part her lips for it and touch the tip with her tongue. She’d wondered if he would shudder and groan.

Yes, Bettina. Yes, I would.

He groaned now, just from the thought of it.

During that day he’d spent with her, as she’d slept, she had dreamed of Trehan. She was intrigued by him, reluctantly attracted to him. She’d absently thought of his eyes, I’ve seen that color green before. In the deepest forests of Abaddon.

If only Caspion didn’t stand between them.

Trehan also had some of her memories of that demon. Caspion had saved her from a lonely and friendless childhood, accepting her as others in her kingdom hadn’t. He and Bettina had traveled all over the mortal realm, exploring together.

Jealousy clawed at Trehan. I should be the one to show her the world.

As he sifted through his dreams, other memories arose. He’d learned that she resided with a phantom warrior. One who spied on her bathing? The fuck that would continue!

And Trehan had seen the dynamics of her relationship with her godparents. She’d once thought, “Why do I topple over whenever they push? Because I’ve never found my footing?”

He’d even experienced her using her power. A little over a year ago, two ghouls had gotten loose in Rune, cornering her in an alley. Instead of being frightened, she’d blasted them with her power, stopping their hearts. Starved of blood, their organs had shut down. The creatures had thrashed on the ground, howling with agony.

The memory had been so intense that Trehan now splayed his fingers, feeling his palms tingle as if he himself had wielded her power.

That innate sorcery had been like her soul. It’d been so intrinsic that magic would emanate from her body whenever she’d experienced strong emotions. Heated whirls of light had marked her happiness, her excitement.

Now . . . nothing.

Trehan had to get it back for her. Or, he thought darkly, help her steal another Sorceri’s. What wouldn’t Trehan do for her?

A fiery arrow to the temple? There was no recovery from it.

But he still lacked the memory of her attack. I must see what happened to my Bride.

To find her foes and make them pay—

He sensed another’s presence inside the tent. Eyes flashing open, hand shooting for his weapon, he traced to his feet. “You won’t catch me unawares, Viktor. Cease trying.”

His cousin materialized in front of him. “That’s not my intention. Remember, I’m in no rush to kill you now.”

Trehan didn’t even argue the impossibility of Viktor managing to do that. “We still have a blood vendetta between us.” An inherited one, but all the same.

“That’s the thing about vendettas. There’s literally no expiration date.” He tsked at Trehan’s appearance. “You look like hell, old man.”

Understandable. He’d had little sleep and less blood. When he’d tried to drink a meal earlier, he’d spat out the contents of his goblet. He feared all blood would be tasteless after Bettina’s. “Are you here for a reason?”

“Truce for the eve. I’m here because I need your assistance.”

Trehan glanced at him with surprise. Viktor simply didn’t ask for help. This ought to be good.

Another male voice sounded: “We all need your assistance.” Mirceo? He’d just appeared inside the tent, along with Stelian.

All the royal male cousins in one place. At least, all the sane ones.

“Truce?” Trehan raised his sword. “I’m supposed to believe that the four of us are in one tent—and we’re all getting out alive?” Each of them was dark haired and tall, each bearing the Daciano stamp upon their faces. Yet they were no family. “I haven’t any patience for your jesting. Draw your weapons.”

Viktor shrugged. “I vow to the Lore that we hold no ill intent toward you.”

“Tonight, at least,” Stelian added.

A vow to the Lore couldn’t be broken. “I don’t know why you’ve come, and I don’t care. I’ve my own concerns now. A life of my own.”

“It appears your suit goes well,” Viktor said.

“What do you know of it?” Trehan demanded, but he feared he knew. The Dacians were observers. . . .

Viktor smiled widely. “Your Bride is lovely in mist.”

“You watched us?” This shouldn’t surprise him, but, gods, it enraged him.

“I was mainly watching the fights. And we turned Mirceo’s head away,” Viktor said. “Eventually.”

Trehan didn’t know whom to attack first. Their gazes had been on his Bride’s trembling body; they’d seen her skin kissed with Trehan’s mist. His fangs went sharp.

“Such aggression,” Stelian said disapprovingly. “You’re as bad as Viktor usually is. Your blooding has turned you savage.”

“The better to bite your throat out with, Stelian.”

“You’d attack when my sword remains sheathed?”

Damn them! None had drawn.

“Look at those fangs, Trey!” Viktor exclaimed. “Still maintaining that you haven’t bitten your Bride?”

Never bitten her. But he’d taken her blood. And I’ll do it again.

Stelian turned up his flask. “You can learn to control your fangs, Cousin.”

Can I? Trehan shook his head hard. “Fight me, or leave! My break from you was clean.”

“And it was your leaving that opened up a dialogue among the three of us,” Mirceo said.

“What are you talking about?”

Though Mirceo was normally a male who took little seriously—a notorious hedonist—his gray eyes were grave. “We’ve realized that we’ve all been fighting for something we don’t want to win. You gave up your right to the throne. But here’s the thing, Uncle. None of us want it either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll reach my immortality soon, might not even have a year left.” Mirceo was nearing the time when he would freeze forever, the time when he’d stop breathing and his heart would cease beating. When he could no longer have sex. “The last thing I want is to be mired in this feud.”

Though Trehan had vague memories of intercourse as an enjoyable pastime, Mirceo’s entire life revolved around bedding—females, males, anyone who’d have him.

“Why should I rule others when I can’t even govern myself?”

Good point.

Stelian took a nip from his flask of blood and mead. “And I am the gatekeeper—”

“A task that already cuts into your drinking?” Trehan interrupted. Whereas he had once been friends with Viktor and a fond “uncle” to Mirceo, he’d never tolerated Stelian well.

Stelian’s parents had been the most devious of all. Just two decades ago, his widowed father had murdered Mirceo and Kosmina’s parents, then disappeared. Trehan had hunted him down and slain him. To this day, they all must suspect me of it. . . .

Stelian scowled at Trehan’s statement, but he didn’t deny his love of drink. “We all know that in a secret realm, a gatekeeper possesses far more power than a king. I can be one or the other, but not both. I choose my current position.” As the guardian of the kingdom.

Trehan could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The two of them had battled nearly to the death as many times as Trehan and Viktor had. “And your reasoning, Viktor?”

He shrugged. “I’m the last of the House of War, and frankly, that’s all I want to do. I’m given to understand this is a bad trait for a king to possess.”

There had to be more to it than that, but Trehan wouldn’t push for details in front of the others. “So what do you three plan?”

“We install Cousin Lothaire as monarch,” Mirceo said. “And then the discord will end. Just as predicted.”

At the hour of her death, Lothaire’s mother, Ivana, the rightful heiress to the throne, was said to have cursed Dacia with unrelenting strife.

Until Lothaire was made king.

I wonder if Lothaire the Enemy of Old knows exactly how accurate his trailing name is. . . .

Mirceo had seen enough strife in his short lifetime to believe in the curse. Trehan, however, had been alive long enough to know that the wily Ivana had likely just predicted more of the same underhanded maneuvering already in play. Dacia’s finite amount of political power and territory made for a situation rife with conflict.

“How much damage can Lothaire do?” Viktor said. “We don’t aggress other kingdoms, we don’t have civil unrest—other than what we royals get up to—and we’re bloody hidden! He’ll be a figurehead. And by rights, the throne is his.”

Trehan shook his head. “The last time I saw him, he was half out of his mind, searching for Dacia in the dead of winter—naked.” The vampire’s white-blond hair had been saturated with blood, his pale skin covered with it, his eyes glowing red like coals. “Oh, and he was also bellowing in Russian for someone to ‘fucking fight’ him.”

Like the rest of them, Lothaire pursued a vendetta, and he coveted the crown of the Dacians to a blistering degree. Too bad he couldn’t find his own kingdom. “He murders for sport, he feeds without restraint, and he sleep-traces uncontrollably.” Like sleep walking—only he could awaken in a different world. “The Enemy of Old is a madman.”

Mirceo said, “We’ve been watching him, Uncle. This idea is not as implausible as you’d think. He’s found his Bride.”

This was a new development.

Viktor added, “I understand your hesitation, Trey. But I’ve seen him with his female. Even in the grips of blood lust, he doesn’t ravage her. And he’s been setting off purposely, as if for some kind of mission. Which indicates at least a degree of sanity.”

Trehan narrowed his gaze. “And you want to find out what this mission is.”

“Exactly. We’ve found his lair in a mortal city called York—”

“It’s New York,” Stelian said with a roll of his eyes, as if he’d explained this before. Then to Trehan he added, “He’s going farther afield, to locations we can’t predict. We can’t follow his movements—not without your crystal.”

Trehan gave a laugh. “Which will never leave my sight.”

“We figured as much,” Viktor said. “You must lead the way, then!”

Trehan had only to imagine Lothaire’s face, and it would direct him to the Enemy of Old. Then he could trace his cousins to the vampire’s location.

Trehan turned to Stelian. “You’re actually in agreement with this?” His hulking cousin revered Dacia and loathed change.

“It’s rational to explore the possibility, to determine if Lothaire’s truly improving.” Stelian took another drink. “We require little of your time. Your days are free.”

No, they really weren’t. Damn it. And still my duty to Dacia calls me.

Though Trehan’s memories of Lothaire gave him pause, the idea of restoring a rightful king to his throne appealed to his sense of order. Trehan might be breaking other rules now, but the rules of succession for the Dacian crown should be inviolable.

Yes, he was warming to this idea.

Viktor said, “You should know, however, that there might be a catch with his Bride.”

“Isn’t there always?” Trehan said. “Can’t wait to hear it—but first, I’ve a catch of my own. . . .”