Shadow's Claim

Chapter 26

Just hours ago, Trehan had been in his tent, sharpening his gleaming sword, grappling with a fury so strong it scalded him inside.

Now he sat at his desk, cleaning his well-bloodied sword, face spattered with gore—and still struggling to rein in his overwhelming rage.

I’m backsliding.

But didn’t the term backsliding indicate that he’d reached this level of fury before? He’d never known it as he had on this day.

After wading through Bettina’s memories, he’d finally seen things he couldn’t unsee. I did things I’d never undo.

He peered at the burlap bag at his feet and the plain black staff beside it. Think of something else, he told himself. The tournament began in minutes. Change the direction of your musings.

What else was there to think of besides Bettina? What else . . . ?

Ah, Dacia. My former home.

Would the Realm of Blood and Mist soon have a new king?

After days of tracking Lothaire all over the world and spying on the vampire’s luxurious York penthouse, the cousins had learned much about their potential ruler—and his Bride.

Indeed, there’s a catch. Lothaire’s female was Elizabeth Peirce, a human “mountain girl” peasant. She was pretty for a mortal, with long dark hair and an intelligent gaze.

But humans perished so easily.

Unfortunately, transforming her into a vampire would be nigh impossible. Females rarely survived the transition, and never with Horde blood, polluted and dark as it was.

Lothaire was indeed on some kind of mission; Trehan would bet his soul that the Enemy of Old sought some way to make his Bride undying.

Lothaire’s mission—combined with his madness—had made for some precarious episodes. To ensure his and Elizabeth’s safety, the cousins had been forced to secretly intercede—up until the time when secrecy had no longer been possible.

The Enemy of Old now knew they were tracking him. . . .

But with each day, the vampire was healing under his female’s influence. At times, he’d proved as calculating as any Dacian.

Pros: Lothaire was more powerful than any other vampire and would make a mighty regent. Cons: He remained bloodthirsty—in all senses of the term.

Still, Mirceo had already voted to install Lothaire. “A red-eyed king who bites others with impunity? My ballot reads: yes,” Mirceo had said with a wink, shocking the older three cousins.

Trehan had scowled at him. “Biting isn’t . . . Dacians simply don’t bite others,” he’d said, sounding prudish and old, even to himself. “Keeping our blood untainted is what separates us from the Horde.”

“Really, Uncle? You know mated Dacians must taste each other’s blood. Even if no one speaks of it. Perhaps with such a king as Lothaire, bloodtaking will be taboo no more?”

“Exchanging blood could happen accidentally,” Stelian had pointed out, “but a bite is consciously done. We’re above such needs.”

Apparently not me. Maybe Trehan had Horde blood in his ancestry . . . ?

Viktor was on the fence about installing Lothaire, saying, “He’s much worse than I’d thought. The only way I’d agree is if he figures out how to bond with his female and make her immortal. Oh, and if we withhold as much pertinent information from him as possible.” Why? “So he has reason to keep us alive.”

Stelian had grown dead set against Lothaire.

And Trehan? I am . . . ready. New ruler or not, the kingdom was no longer Trehan’s mistress. Now he was free to serve another completely, a wide-eyed halfling he would kill to possess.

To protect. Zeii mea, I want to protect her forever.

Today, at last, he had begun.

“Welcome, all, to the Morgana show!” her godmother announced to the crowd.

Bettina sighed. This is going to be a long night. She gazed around the grandstand, noting all the changes Morgana’s minions had wrought over the day.

Sorceri banners of crimson and purple now swathed the area, like slashes of paint on a gray Abaddon canvas. Crystal domes levitated above the great torches, the glass casting brilliant prisms over everything.

Was it just her, or had the Sorceri banquet table lengthened—while the demon table had shortened? And no meat graced the demons’ feast, which Bettina thought was unnecessarily cruel.

Raum sat beside Bettina on the dais with his goblet all but attached to his face. He was cruising toward battle-ax mode, casting Morgana black looks.

There had to be a story between those two, something more than Bettina knew.

Morgana was in rare form tonight, dressed in her most impressive pieces. Her gold bustier was encrusted with diamonds—she called the piece her “Valkyrie slayer”—and her full-length skirt was sequined with more diamonds, hundreds of them.

Across her face, she had sapphires affixed in the shape of a mask. Her eyes glowed with her amusement, lighting the gems. But her headdress was the most awing sight to behold, a fan of gold, studded with mismatched jewels—choice heirlooms from all the Loreans she’d slain over her long life.

Bettina couldn’t lift the piece by herself. Three Inferi had to heft it atop Morgana’s shoulders. Yet the sorceress carried it with aplomb.

Now Morgana cupped her hand to her ear. “I said, ‘Welcome to the Morgana show!’ ”

Sorceri cheered—frantically, as if their lives depended on it. Wise.

Apparently dissatisfied with the level of applause, she announced, “I am the one who sponsored the preceding spectacles, including the floor show—”

The crowd erupted into cheers and foot stomping.

Guess my subjects are big on floor shows. Good to know.

“Silence!” Morgana commanded. At once, everyone went quiet. “Tonight’s round is the lady’s choice. It will have much, much more tension and emotional poignancy than the other mundane rounds.” Sly look at Raum. “This is a contest of wits—the only muscle used will be the brain.”

At last Bettina would find out what this was all about.

Morgana waved to the guards at the sanctum gate. “Bring forth the competitors.” The six remaining males filed out to stand in a line below the grandstand—Goürlav, the Lykae, the remaining fire demon, the last stone demon, Caspion, and Daciano.

Just looking at the vampire brought on a pang of feeling. Which meant . . .

I have more than just Cas to worry about tonight.

For once Daciano wasn’t gazing at her but staring out into the misty night, clearly preoccupied. What had happened to him today? What turmoil had Salem witnessed?

“Six of you will enter. Three will die,” Morgana told them. “Now, the rules of this round are simple. You have ten minutes to return here with an offering for Princess Bettina. She will rate them from favorite to least. The trio whose gifts rank lowest will lose their heads.”

Bettina’s jaw slackened. It was one thing to see males battling it out to the death—having to decide exactly who would perish was another thing altogether. She bit out to Raum, “You knew about this?”

He patted her hand, looking anywhere but at her face. “Over before you know it, m’girl.”

Tonight Morgana had made her the judge and jury. For three beings. Bettina would all but execute them herself.

As Bettina bristled beside Raum, Morgana continued, “Whoever wins tonight will go directly to the final round, awaiting the victor of tomorrow night’s semifinal match.”

Cas caught Bettina’s eye, mouthing, Just made the finals. Of course he was jovial; he knew he was safe. He could bring her dirt, and she’d adore it.

“The runner-up,” Morgana said, “will receive a tour of Rune tonight, guided by Princess Bettina herself.”

Tour? Tour!!!

“You will bring your offerings to the sanctum, then return here,” Morgana said.

Daciano’s face was as impassive as ever, but his eyes were black. Bettina sensed that this challenge had taken him off guard.

“Beginning now.” The great horn punctuated Morgana’s words.

Once the contestants had hastened, traced, or were wrangled away, Morgana turned to Bettina. “Let’s see how well your ‘suitors’ know you. It takes so little to make a sorceress happy. All we need is gold, wine, gold, bold color, merriment, gold, power—”

“I’ll pick Goürlav’s as last,” Bettina informed her godmother, “and be done with him.”

“Alas, you must answer honestly.” Morgana sipped from her goblet. “Just as the terms of the contract will compel those entrants to return—despite their prospects—you’ll be compelled to tell the truth.”

Their prospects? They were returning to a fifty-fifty chance of death. Dread suffused her.

Though Cas was completely safe, what if Daciano offered her something she detested?

“And besides,” Morgana said, “you won’t be privy to which contestant offered which gift.”

“What?”