Shadow's Claim

Chapter 21

Night two. Well past midnight. Drunk again.

Bettina slouched over the banquet table, head propped in her hand, a glass of wine tilted precariously in her other hand. Her eyes were glazed over from watching fights for umpteen hours.

Die already, she inwardly cried for the hundredth time.

She gazed around, noting that she wasn’t the only one drunk; all of Rune was in rare form.

They’d been imbibing since sundown and the demon brew was beginning to hit them, sweeping over the crowds like an apocalypse of drunk.

Initially, the ring had been divided into several different cages so the matches between less well-known contenders could occur simultaneously. Still, they’d taken ages to complete. At midnight, guards had removed the inner cages to prepare for the heavy-weight contenders like Goürlav, Daciano—and Caspion.

Pretty much all of the kingdom’s females had rallied around “Abaddon’s fair-haired son.” Even the males were coming around.

He was slated to fight the remaining Cerunno last, and she’d been on edge all night. Goürlav’s match was up next, with Daciano’s bout against the giant troll to follow.

Like all the competitors, they’d been required to wait in the sanctum for hours.

Morgana had long since returned to her castle, located in her own private Sorceri plane. Early on she’d endured two matches, yawning widely, even at the gruesome ends. Assured that Bettina had dressed scantily enough to be worthy of the Sorceri name, she and her Inferi had portal-ed away.

During the ring changeover, Bettina had spied Raum escorting two pretty nymphs backstage.

Which left her all alone at the table. Winners could have come and visited her after their bouts, but they always left, never joining her at banquet. Each one intended to marry her in mere days; none of them made an effort to get to know her better.

Well, except for one. A vampire with the most sublime body she’d ever imagined—who’d provided her with the most erotic vision she’d ever witnessed.

When Cas had shown up today at sundown, she’d barely been able to look him in the eye.

He’d gone home alone the night before, trying to make it work between them, while she’d been moaning into Daciano’s mouth.

But she wouldn’t be seduced again. Tonight, she and Cas had started over. . . .

She waved for a refill, glancing over her shoulder at the other banqueters. Again the grandstand was divided between armored demons and gold-clad Sorceri.

On the demon side, the table was laden with platters of suckling pig, rack of lamb, wild boar, venison. Tankards of demon brew abounded.

Most Sorceri, however, were strict vegetarians. On their side, fruits and vegetables were arranged in elaborate platters and towers, and sweet wine flowed from crystal decanters.

Bettina definitely preferred their table. When she was young, she’d tried to eat like a demon, to have one thing in common with her subjects. She’d been as successful in that as she’d been in growing horns, getting strong, or learning to trace.

Hey, at least I can be summoned!

Different as the two groups were, both sides were sauced. The demons openly pawed the serving girls. The Sorceri flirted with their coy looks that could say a thousand things.

Most of the latter had remained to enjoy the wine, but also to watch their new favorite—the Prince of Shadow.

He was responsible for a good part of Bettina’s exhaustion, for her fitful sleep over the course of the day. When she’d first drifted off, she’d suffered her usual nightmare; yet then the subject—and the nature—of her dreams had changed.

In reverie, her mind had replayed the night with him. She’d relived endless kisses and slippery hot flesh. She’d eagerly revisited that image of him standing before her clad only in firelight.

Over and over, she’d awakened on the verge of orgasm.

A day of sensual torture. Yet she’d been unable to do anything about it, because of the last shocking favor Daciano had asked of her.

Don’t touch yourself.

She’d been flabbergasted. “Pardon?”

“Over the day, if you feel need, don’t act on it. That’s the favor I want from you. Then you’ll owe me only two boons.”

“Why would you want this?”

“So you will crave me as I do you.”

“More plots, more plans?”

“When the prize is so dear . . .”

Sensual. Torture.

He’d kissed her, aroused her to the brink of release, then forbidden any relief. She didn’t know how she was going to face him tonight.

Maybe I should pull for the troll.

Trehan wanted to begin his match—so he could end it. At last it neared, next after Goürlav’s.

He was keen to see his Bride once more, to determine whether she’d kept her end of their final bargain last night.

He’d caught only a glimpse of her as the tournament had begun. She’d narrowed her eyes at him, seeming particularly irritable—not the demeanor of a sexually satisfied female.

Yet Trehan hadn’t been able to talk to her, compelled by his contract to join the other competitors in these dank catacombs.

Water seeped from slimy stones. Kobolds hissed and scurried in the distance. Crude benches had been carved into the walls. Male voices echoed throughout this labyrinth, voices tinged with fear or bravado.

Trehan said nothing to his opponents, instead reliving the day he’d spent—a day of need and denial.

He hadn’t accessed her memories yet, because he hadn’t slept. Uneasy away from her, he’d returned to her room, just for a glimpse of her sleeping to tide him over until sunset. He’d found her in a fitful sleep, her brows drawn as a nightmare tormented her.

Wrapping her in mist, he’d secretly lain beside her in the darkness of her curtained bed. Her silken locks had haloed out over silken sheets, her lips parted so temptingly.

As he’d stared at her face, he’d been overwhelmed with feeling, as if centuries of yearning had risen in a single moment:

I want her draped in mist, under my protection. I want her in my bed, gazing up at me with those glittering eyes as I enter her. I want her pleasured cries in my ear and her blood upon my tongue. . . .

Yet then her dreams had grown sensual. She’d raised her slim arms over her head, spreading her legs, her hips rocking, rocking . . . until she’d awakened in the dark with a gasp, on the verge, having no idea he was less than a foot away.

His fangs had shot as hard as his shaft, just as uncontrollable. He’d wanted both buried inside her.

In the past, he’d observed Horde vampires blood-taking in deranged attacks. Needless to say, the victims hadn’t enjoyed it. But what if Trehan took Bettina’s leisurely, painstakingly?

There were females rumored to find pleasure from a male’s bite. He’d wondered, Could my female? It would be a perfect exchange. She’d give me blood, and I’d make her come. . . .

At that thought, it’d taken every ounce of his control not to reach for her. But she was already angered with him. Finding him in her bed would only add to her pique. So he’d clenched his fists and suffered with her, telling himself she would be sorely in need this eve, and he could use that to his advantage.

When she’d drifted back to sleep, the same thing had happened again and again.

He couldn’t plant dreams—he was no dream demon—but apparently the mist had brought him to mind.

Trehan hoped. If he even supposed that those hungry little moans had been for Caspion . . .

Once she’d awakened for good, he’d forced himself to leave, wondering if she could possibly refrain from caressing her trembling body. From masturbating her sex during her bath.

Delicate pale fingers against rosy flesh.

When he began to grow hard—even in this foul place—he shook his head. Focus, Trehan! Concentrate on the task at hand. Study your opponents.

He peered across the dingy corridor, gaze landing on the troll. Armed with a massive club, the creature was large but lumbering, with foot-long bristles dotting his body. Not exactly threatening. Yet Trehan had noticed in the melee that weapons had shattered against those bristles. They must be as strong as titanium—and dozens of them sprouted from its throat.

Trehan thought he spied a sliver of space between them. Basically he’d have to slice his sword perfectly—through an opening the width of his flat blade.

If he missed and his sword broke, he didn’t know how he could relieve the troll’s body of its head.

One shot.

With a mental shrug, Trehan turned his attention to Goürlav, hoping to spy some weakness. Yet the demon merely leaned back against a wall, eyes closed, breathing deep and even.

Trehan could glean little, other than the fact that the pre-demon’s body had been made for war. A rippled plate of bone covered its heart; those tusks hung down from its chin, protecting its neck like a shield. Three pairs of horns only added more protection. Even its green eyelids were thick, doubled over with many scaly folds. All vulnerabilities defended.

How to deliver an immortal death blow—without spilling a single drop of blood?

There had to be a solution. Every conundrum had one. What I wouldn’t give to research this in my library. He rubbed his palm over his nape, feeling another’s gaze.

Ah, Caspion studies me. Though incredibly young—not much older than Bettina—the demon wasn’t without skill. Trehan suspected he would advance far in the tournament.

Trying to uncover my weaknesses, whelp?

In times past, Trehan had few. If the sun threatened to burn his skin, he’d always been able to turn to mist. Now he had to keep that talent hidden. Fortunately, he also possessed the ability to half-trace: manifesting himself just enough to be visible—and poised to attack—yet still insubstantial enough for the sun’s rays to pass through him.

No, Trehan’s greatest weakness was one brand-new to him: any threat to his Bride.

Caspion chose that moment to trace in front of him. “You often take advantage of innocent young females, old man? Stealing into their bedrooms?”

“Not one in an eternity.” Trehan viewed him as he might an annoying insect. “You feel misplaced anger toward me. I’ve done nothing to you. Yet.”

“You sneaked into the room of my best friend and future wife, compromising her.”

“Future wife?” Control your anger, Trehan, lest it control you. “And how would your fated demon mate feel about your marriage to another?”

“You’re a prick, Daciano. No wonder Bettina hates you.”

Hates me? “So you know she’s not yours. She indicated to me that you hadn’t planned to enter—did you change your mind to avoid my sword for mere days?”

“I entered for her. And we won’t know if she’s mine until I bed her for the first time.”

The idea of them together enraged Trehan. His fangs went sharp as he imagined her saying those words to Caspion: You can do anything to me.

Calm! Control! “You and I both know you won’t get out of this tournament alive, boy. I had to save your forsaken life in the first godsdamned round. I could have ended you then.”

“I had that under control!” His horns straightened with aggression. “And the only reason you helped me is because you want to kill me yourself.”

Trehan had helped solely for an advantage with Bettina. Considering last night, I’d do it again. “Right now I very much wish to kill you myself.”

“If you do that, you’ll devastate Bettina.”

“Which is regrettable. Luckily, as you pointed out, she’s young. I’ll make sure she recovers.” Why am I baiting him?

“She loves me. She always will. She might be your Bride, but she’ll never be your wife.”

Trehan clutched his sword hilt, fury burning inside him. Control your anger. Control your instinct.

His rational mind knew Caspion had no fated claim on Bettina. After this conversation, Trehan also knew that the demon didn’t feel love for her—at least, not romantic love.

But his heated instincts still demanded satisfaction, a swift death as punishment. Since encountering Bettina, Trehan had been inundated with a ferocity unlike any he’d ever known.

Control . . . control. Inhale. Exhale.

The horn blared then. Ignoring Caspion, Trehan turned his attention to Goürlav, due to fight the young animus demon this round.

Goürlav eased his massive body to his feet. Had he been slow to move initially? Had his primordial joints creaked?

Or was he feigning weakness?

Instead of tracing, Goürlav stomped from the sanctum to the ring, his horns scraping the top of the twelve-foot-high entryway, gouging the rock. His horns were unmarked.

The animus demon followed with leaden feet. Sweat covered the male’s pallid face. When the iron gate closed behind them, he lost control of his bladder.

Trehan traced to the gate to watch the bout. Caspion made a frustrated sound and followed.

Just outside the ring, a cadre of Rune’s soldiers had gathered, readying to fight Child Terrors, should any arise from Goürlav’s blood. They needn’t have bothered.

As the match began, so would it end—abruptly.

With one blow, Goürlav sliced his opponent from balls to scalp. Another sword strike took both halves of his victim’s head.

Goürlav gave a monstrous roar to the sky then disappeared, likely returning to whatever hell dimension he ruled.

Trehan glanced at Caspion, finding the young male’s eyes narrowed, his expression determined. Trehan imagined them both sharing a singular thought: I will do anything to keep that creature from Bettina.