Shadow's Claim (30 page)

She could have requested an extension on this deadline, but it helped to keep her mind occupied as the tournament dragged on.

Night after night, she’d flinched with each hit Cas took and sagged with each bout he won; she’d fretted as Goürlav handily advanced, without so much as a single injury.

Night after night, she’d wondered why the vampire had made no move to speak to her since he’d pleasured her in the mist.

He had appeared, killed quietly and efficiently, then vanished.

In his bout against the remaining Ajatar, he’d walked through flames, his outline illuminated—no panic, just pure will as he’d made his kill, collecting one head, then the other.

Against the Volar demon, he’d demonstrated just as little emotion. With his face expressionless and his eyes that impassive green, Daciano had winged the creature, then taken its head effortlessly.

Many of the Abaddonae were speculating that he was a turned human, a Forbearer. Some of them believed he must be the oldest Forbearer ever turned, considering his strength and his control with tracing.

Most had deemed him chillingly cold.

If she had a gold piece for every time Cas had muttered, “Bastard’s got ice in his veins” . . .

But Bettina thrilled to watch him fight. As someone interested in mechanical precision, she could appreciate his daring but methodical style.

A killing machine.

Yet she’d also seen him as no one else had—his grim face alight with pride, his eyes dancing. . . .

Even if she could deny that she’d missed him, she couldn’t deny that her body hungered for more of what he’d given her.

Her only exchanges with him? After each of his matches, he’d given her a bow in acknowledgment, then he’d leveled that penetrating gaze on her.

Recalling how his irises changed as he beheld her—forest green flooding black—made her shiver even now.

She could imagine his look said:
I’m fighting for you. Soon you’ll be mine.

It made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

Others had started to remark on the way he looked at her, nicknaming him the Prince of Obsessions. Bettina Abaddon—an object of obsession?

She couldn’t quite buy it either.

Besides, if he was so obsessed, then why had he made no move to contact her? Salem had mentioned that he was never in his tent during the day. Where would the vampire go if barred from Dacia?

She’d noticed that his clothing was often in disarray, as if he’d traced into the ring directly from another fight. He would have mud splashed across his pants or a ripped shirttail. Once he’d had snow on his boots and a spray of crimson on his sleeve.

What? Did he have a part-time job or something?

Maybe he’d simply tired of the chase. She replayed his parting words continually.
Lest you lose a male who’ll desire only you . . .

The idea of losing him brought on a wave of sadness.
Which made no sense; if she loved one male, how could she feel things for another?

Admittedly, things were strained between her and Cas. The more he tried to be on his best boyfriendly behavior, the more distance seemed to yawn between them.

Whenever he remained at an endless banquet with her—instead of running off with his rowdy friends—he could be the picture of attentiveness. Until he inevitably slipped up with a longing gaze at the exit, or a buxom serving wench distracted his attention.

Then he’d look guilty, like he was inwardly berating himself. Which made
her
feel guilty for dragging him into this. Would he forever gaze at other females, wondering if
that
one might be
the
one? Would he forever imagine attempting other demonesses to find his fated mate?

She wasn’t eaten alive with jealousy like before—not after all the things she’d done with Daciano. No, she was more contemplative about Cas’s insistence that another female would be his. What if he’d been right?

What if I’ve been . . .
wrong?
Maybe it hadn’t been a matter of their different stations or his insecurity over his birth. Maybe it hadn’t been a matter of his sown oats.

She and Cas had never been ill at ease with each other before. At times she feared they were trying to wedge their relationship into a mold that would never fit.

Speaking of which . . .
She glanced down at the mold she’d been filing, gawking at the pile of shavings.
Ruined
. She chucked it into the wastebasket, then squeezed her forehead with frustration.

Everything was changing, her life altered by this
tournament in unforeseeable ways. And possibly for nothing.

Raum had visited today with some startling news—

“Honey, I’m home!” Salem called out, returning from his daily duties: spying. Entering the workroom, he occupied a length of chain on the backboard. “Damn, chit, maybe you want to file the shavings down too?”

She glared. “I’m preoccupied,
okay
?”

“And I’m holding me palms up in surrender—but it’s fake. ’Cause I never surrender. So how much longer till you finish?”

“I’ll complete fabrication before the round tonight, attaching the palm grip to the four top rings. Basically everything but the spring mechanism and the sneak blade. When I get back, I’ll do that and then etch the rings. You can send word that she’ll have it tomorrow.”

Which was an important step. Bettina straightened her arms, clutching the edge of the workbench.
Because if Goürlav wins, I’ll be seeking asylum in Patroness’s kingdom.

Of course, without her medallion, Bettina couldn’t exactly escape her new husband’s clutches.

They still had no idea how to defeat the primordial, and there were only three rounds left—including tonight’s lady’s choice round. She’d secretly been hoping that this round would afford her the opportunity to take out the primordial herself.

“What’s going on out in Rune?” she asked Salem.

“Commerce,” Salem said in an impressed tone. “Lots and lots of commerce. Your backwater kingdom is now a hot tourist destination.”

As the final battles neared, fans of all stripes—sometimes literally—had arrived on the plane, filling inns and eateries. Young Loreans were camped out
around the Iron Ring, playing music and building bonfires.

“And whatever Morgana’s got going on down in the ring is drawing folks by the droves.”

The sorceress had commandeered the arena for the entire day and night, hosting opening acts before tonight’s round. “Any scoop on the competitors?” Their number had been cut down to just six. Most possessed the ability to trace. Four of them were demons—including the primordial. “Maybe you have news about Goürlav?” she added hopefully.

“He’s here less and less during the day,” Salem answered. “I got nothing. Even the spies I’m spying on who are spying on other spies got nothing.”

Salem had reported that intrigues, subterfuge, and cheating were rampant.

“Do you have any idea what tonight’s round will entail?” All Bettina knew was that the remaining six would dwindle to three.

“I just shook me head. Wiv Morgana, expect the unexpected, yeah?”

“Maybe I’m supposed to decide which competitors will fight each other.”

“Or maybe you just snap your fingers and take out three.” Salem made a snapping sound. “Including Goürlav.”

“I’d been hoping the same. What about the rest of the competitors?”

“I spent the morning as the ceiling in the warlocks’ tent. Found out that the hobbies of Those Best Forgotten include long walks on the beach and sacrificing nymphs on altars. I mean, who’d want to hurt a nymph? That’s like kicking a rainbow in the nuts. And they’re
doing things to that wolf . . . well, let’s just say they’re shy of humane.”

Salem had already told her how those
handlers
baited the poor creature before his rounds, bringing his ferocity to the fore.

“Why can’t he rein in his beast?” She knew his kind spent years learning to control the wolf within, always fearing that it’d take over.

“It’s not a rollicking good time of a story.” When she waved him on, Salem said, “The male was . . . human. The warlocks turned him to serve them. Apparently, they do that kind of thing a lot.”

A turned Lykae would have
no
chance of mastering the new beast inside him, not for years—if ever. Until then, you’d have a brutal killer on your hands, which was why so few were ever transformed. “So the warlocks just wind him up and let him go?”

She could imagine Salem nodding.

An added bonus? Besides being the strongest Lore species, the Lykae also happened to have unfailing fighting instincts. “Does the wolf have any idea what happened to him?”

“Dunno. Depends on how long ago he was turned. He might have flashes of lucidity. We better hope for one of those flashes if he goes up against Goürlav. Those Lykae claws would spill some serious Child Terrors. Can you imagine—”

“I don’t
want
to imagine! This is happening under my watch. Most outsiders believe
I
rule. But I’d never condone the slavery of that wolf. I’d never condone anything that might bring Child Terrors to Rune!” With snappish movements, she began cleaning up the slivers.

“No argument here,” Salem said in a consoling tone. “By the way, I happened to stop by the leech’s again. Actually found him inside.”

She briefly stilled. “And?” she asked as if she couldn’t care less.

“You don’t sound interested. It’s nothing. Shouldn’t have bothered you wiv—”

“Fine! Just tell me about him.”

“I found him sitting in his darkened tent, mindlessly sharpening his sword as he stared at a crystal on his desk. His fangs were sharp, eyes black as pitch. The furs on his pallet were shredded. Not exactly the behavior of a cold and rational sort. He looked like he was about to—oh, how do I put this?—go out and
fuck shit up
. Take me word for it, still waters run deep wiv that one. And when the cold ones go, they go big.”

Daciano had neared the limits of his control with her, but he’d always pulled back. So what had affected him so much?

Salem said, “Did you know there are Abaddonae who have started backing that leech?”

“Over one of their own? Or another breed of demon?”

“Hell, I can almost see it myself. Almost. He’s kept it in his pants, thereby keeping you safe from a stoning. Hat tip to the vamp on that one—’cause you sure as hell weren’t barring the gates to your lady garden.” Over her outraged sounds, he continued, “He fights like no other, and you fancied him.”

“I did not!”

“Fuck knots don’t lie, chit.”

“But I love Cas.”

“Know that I’m rolling my eyes right now.” At her
glower, he said, “
Of course
you love him! In a certain way. You were two orphans that hit it off and bonded. He was your only friend in this entire kingdom. Pair that uncommon tie wiv his uncommon good looks, and
any
female’s judgment would get cloudy. Trust me on this—I used to leave chits addlepated whenever I walked by.”

“You were uncommonly good-looking?”

“Hotter ’n Beckham wiv a better body.”

That got her to raise a brow.

“In any case, you’re young—
too
young to know what love is.”

Exactly what Daciano had said. “How old are you, then?”

He gave a dramatic sigh. “Old as air. And probably still too young to know what love is. Though there was this one. Almost thought she was me kindred.”

A phantom’s mate.

“It ended bad though—”

The outer exit to her spire whooshed open. Bettina frowned in Salem’s direction, imagined them sharing a questioning look.

Morgana called, “Freakling!”

Bettina and Salem hurried to the sitting room. “What is it?”

“We need to talk about Raum at once.”

This was weird. Earlier Raum had visited—to talk about Morgana.

“Hello, hot-and-bothered,” Salem said to Morgana.
Al-low, hot-n-bovvered.

The sorceress’s gaze found Salem’s vicinity. “Phantom, is that you?” Her imperious stance softened as she
fluffed her hair
. Bettina had never seen her godmother like this.

“Here in the flesh. So to speak,” he added. “What’s doin’, trix?”

“Oh, with
me
?” She examined her costume claws. “Just been supervising today’s Morganapalooza. I put together some opening acts down in the ring. They’re quite popular.” Her demeanor was boastful, her words laced with an I’m-kind-of-a-big-deal undertone.

“Opening acts? Like what?”

“Kobold tossing, ghoul cage fights. And the Morganza of them all: a nymph floor show.”

What’s a floor show?

Salem seemed to know—the air blurred around him, signaling his eagerness. He hastily said, “I should go do a patrol, you know, down ’round the ring-al area. For security purposes. For the good of the kingdom. I’ll let you two talk.” And then he was gone.

Morgana gazed after him and sighed. Then she turned to Bettina with a hard look. “Pour the wine.”

They took their glasses out onto the balcony. Feeling safe with the sorceress, Bettina only gazed upward once. “Okay, tell me. What’s a floor show?”

“Did you never see
Rocky Horror Picture Show
?”

At Bettina’s blank look, Morgana’s lips parted. “
R.H.P.S.?
I’ve been remiss with you. I can see that now.” To the sky, she murmured, “Eleara, forgive me.” To Bettina, she said, “Floor show: noun, nightclub acts that include singing and dancing. For my purposes, they are sexy acts. Or sex acts. I can’t remember which package I ordered.”

“I see.” No wonder Salem blazed.

“Now, I must depart soon to change for my referee duties, but this couldn’t wait. I don’t want to mince words”—as if she ever did—“but I don’t believe your
godfather has located the fiends who attacked you. With the end of the tournament nearly upon us, I don’t think he can uphold his end of the bargain.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Those Vrekeners are likely deep into the air territories. Exactly how are death demons going to trace to a location like Skye Hall? It
moves
. And they can only teleport to places they’ve previously been. Say they actually bag a Vrekener and force their hostage to take them aloft to the Hall—is Abaddon to wage war? Because that’s what Raum courts.”