Shadow's Claim

Chapter 27

Trehan’s options were few.

He’d already procured his “gift” for Bettina, but it was the type that should be given with explanation and tact. Otherwise, she might react badly to it.

Screams, fainting, retching—all possible.

He knew his Bride could be . . . skittish at times. However, his offering was something she’d dreamed of, and her guardians would be pleased.

All beings in the Lore would be put on notice.

If Trehan wanted to signal to Raum and Morgana that he was a male who should possess their ward, this was a solid move.

But thinking of her fears made him doubt. Ever cold, ever logical Trehan was unable to make a decision.

Is this a rational play?

Or do I merely want to demonstrate what I alone can give to her? Demonstrate it to the entire realm?

Was it ego—or daring?

Two minutes left. He might have the opportunity to prepare her; he’d have to chance that.

Exhaling a breath, he traced back to the sanctum, the burlap bag slung over his shoulder. Unable to spy out what the others’ gifts were, he grudgingly handed his bag to attendants, then returned to the ring.

Each contestant looked pleased about his gift, except for the dirt-coated Lykae; he just appeared rabid and half-drugged.

Morgana raised her hands over the six, commanding, “Kneel.”

None of them did. Trehan even shared a look with Goürlav: the fuck? Trehan Daciano knelt before no one—

Suddenly an inconceivable pressure hit him, as if anvil blows had landed atop both his shoulders. His knees slammed against the ground, his legs nearly buckling under the force. All of the contestants had been shoved down, the fire demon suffering a dislocated shoulder. The ground shook when Goürlav was put to his knees.

The gold decorating Morgana’s body vibrated, heated air diffusing around her. Trehan perceived her power surrounding them. Swift, fierce . . . dark. “Perhaps next time you’ll obey promptly when a Queen orders you. Obedience—is—not—optional.”

Each of the contestants had his arms jerked behind his back, his wrists fettered by her sorcery. Like a shot, six swords appeared, floating through the air to position themselves before the six males.

One sword directly against each competitor’s throat.

If Trehan so much as swallowed, he’d slice himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a cadre of warriors standing at the ready to fight any Child Terrors, should Goürlav’s blood spill.

Everything became clear.

Instantly upon Bettina’s decision, three heads would topple.

By the time the six had returned, Bettina had been close to hyperventilating. It hadn’t helped that Daciano looked troubled about this round, his brows drawn.

In the past, he’d been so confident. Now he seemed to be trying to communicate something to her.

Goürlav was enraged, his yellow eyes slitted, spittle dribbling from a rotted fang down to his fossilized beard. Caspion looked cocky. The poor Lykae squirmed against Morgana’s hold, chuffing with confusion.

Had his warlock handlers chosen well, or would the former human die for their mistake?

The fire and stone demons appeared stoic, but their horns were twisting with their panic.

This entire situation was killing her. Six swords at six throats? No muss, no fuss, no disputing the verdict.

This would all be over before she knew it.

Cas chanced a wink at her. Whatever he’d given her would likely be recognizable as his offering.

Thank gods for that.

But what if Daciano had stumbled with his choice? What if her choice made that sword slice through his neck—the neck she’d licked and nuzzled her face against as he’d pleasured her?

Never again to see his devilish eyes go black with emotion . . . ?

Her own eyes started to water behind her mask. Why had this decision fallen to her?

Morgana called, “And now, the gifts!”

More guards conveyed the procession of tributes toward the grandstand. One held a single envelope, one a velvety-smooth jewelry case, and another led in two stallions of a rare silver color, an exquisitely matched pair. Next came a bulging wagon full of gold. So much of it that even she raised her brows. Behind that was a rare phoenix, its feathers so brilliant she nearly had to shield her eyes.

Last: a bulky burlap sack?

Murmurs sounded, demons craning their heads to get a better look at the bag.

Already Bettina had made a decision about one of the gifts, a deadly decision. Dear gods, what if it was the vampire’s? Trehan Daciano might be about to die.

And it took this realization for her to admit that there was something compelling between them. Maybe it was fate or his blooding or just unparalleled chemistry. Whatever it was, she wanted to explore it.

Would they never get the chance?

Morgana opened the envelope, announcing in a ringing voice, “For those of you in the audience, the envelope contains two tickets to deadmau5. Dead mau five?”

“Deadmouse,” Bettina corrected in a whisper. A techno act she’d been wanting to see in the mortal realm. Clearly Cas’s gift. No harm would come to him tonight.

Yet her sense of relief for Cas couldn’t override her worry for Daciano.

Next, Morgana opened the jewelry case and announced, “The royal jewels of the long-fallen Peace Demonarchy.” As she laid them on the dais table for Bettina to examine, she said, “Look at the pretties, Bettina!” She was gleeful, as if these gifts were being offered to her. “Is this not the best? You love jewelry.”

True, but Bettina didn’t like to be given it. The quality was always inferior to what she could create. Bettina would just wind up melting this gift down.

She shrugged; Morgana rolled her eyes, then called, “Next!” A soldier led over the horses. “Behold—the fey king’s prized stallions, stolen from the legendary realm of Draiksulia.” Over her shoulder, she said, “Look at the ponies!”

Sadly, Bettina wasn’t fond of horses, and she was fairly positive that they hated her. She’d been thrown when little and had never climbed back in the saddle.

“Prancing, prancing ponies for Bettina?” Morgana queried. “No? Seriously?”

When Bettina gave another slight shrug, Morgana’s expression turned woebegone. “But how they prance.”

Bettina was seeing all new facets to the great sorceress. Before, Morgana had simply been her moderately evil godmother. Now Bettina was beginning to understand that she was a woman with her own concerns—such as the apocalypse—and her own wants and desires—such as prancing ponies and Vrekener extinction.

“Next! Ah, and here we have a phoenix, the sole male from what is thought to be the last flock.”

What was Bettina supposed to do—put the bird out to stud? Advertise online? Though she adored the phoenix’s vivid colors, she considered it cruel to take it away from its flock.

Not so for Morgana. “Think of the masks we could make from those feathers! No? Oh, come on! Really?” She gazed heavenward with frustration.

When the wagon of gold rolled out, its wheels groaning under the weight of all those riches, Morgana called, “This one needs no description! Behold a sorceress’s fortune in gold!”

She winked at Bettina. “Looks like somebody wants to live. What’s that smell? Ah, yes, it’s desperation. . . .”

Then came the last gift. She and Morgana shared a look.

“What could be in that bag, Bettina?”

When she held up her palms, the sorceress waved a hand toward the sack, using her power to open the fastenings.

In a rush, the contents spilled out and bounced across the stage.