Shadow's Claim

Chapter 12

Raum gazed around at the crowd. “Then the lists will be considered full—”

“Hold demon,” a male called from the back. “You’ve one final competitor.”

Bettina would have recognized that deep, accented voice anywhere.

She squeezed her eyes shut. The vampire was here, somewhere in the crowd. And he planned to compete?

Just when she’d thought the night couldn’t possibly get worse.

Earlier when Cas had told her he would enter, with his shoulders back like some sigh-worthy hero of old, her heart had leapt. Then at the sign-in desk, he’d qualified his actions: “There, Tina. If I’m marked for death anyway, I might as well try to save my best friend from a nightmare marriage.”

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. . . .”