Shadow's Claim (43 page)

Cas sounded stunned. “Bringing a stick to a sword fight?”

For some reason, Morgana gave a delighted laugh. “The weapon.” In an
ah-ha!
tone, she cried,
“The Ever-Knowing One!”

Again, whatever that meant. Daciano had said he wouldn’t strike—except for the kill strike. How exactly did he intend to kill with a staff?

Dear gods, my vampire
is
going to die.

The gate clanged shut behind the competitors. With an uneasy glance at the squadron of soldiers posted outside the ring, Raum signaled for the horn.

And there wasn’t a damn thing Bettina could do to help Trehan Daciano.

T
he horn was still sounding when Goürlav made his first strike against Trehan, tracing with unfathomable speed.

The primordial sliced his long sword through the air even before his body had fully materialized.

Trehan leapt back, twisting his torso to avoid the sword tip by inches.
Can’t block it
. He had to remember not to wield the staff as he would a sword. Had to remember
to ignore
all his training.

Before he’d had time even to regain his fighting position, that sword whistled through the air once more. Pain seared his chest. Blood dripped from a shallow gash.

Fuck, this creature is fast.
Goürlav
had
been sandbagging in other rounds. The pre-demon’s body might be old, but it was deadly honed.

And Trehan couldn’t fight back.
I only get one shot at this, one shot with this weapon.
He began half-tracing,
making himself like air; at once, Goürlav ceased his advances, conserving all energy.

We’ll be weeks like this.
Trehan needed to make the demon complacent.
Which means I’ll be taking a beating.
He clenched his jaw and materialized fully.

Goürlav charged once more, his sword nearly catching the staff before Trehan yanked it behind him. Goürlav’s yellow eyes flickered with interest. Sensing that Trehan was protecting the staff?

Another charge.

Gods damn it! Now the demon was targeting it.
Have to defend myself—while defending it. Or I’ll never leave this ring alive.

Goürlav feinted with his sword. Trehan dodged—just as the demon launched his anvil fist right at Trehan’s chest, connecting. His sternum fractured as his body hurtled through the air.

Trace!
Too disoriented. Up? No, down! Plummeting. Never had he taken such a hit.

His back crashed into the side of the cage; a line of iron spikes gored holes into the back of his neck and torso before his body recoiled from the impact. Launched into the air once more, he poured blood from a pierced lung.

The second landing was like a punch from the earth. All breath left his good lung. Black dots swarmed in his vision.
Rouse yourself!

Wait.
Hands empty?
Where was the staff?

The demon seized his body with two hands, sinking its claws into Trehan’s skin. Trehan thrashed but couldn’t get free; the primordial’s grip made it impossible to trace. In one practiced movement, Goürlav dropped to a knee, raised the other, and lifted Trehan over his head.

To crack my spine.
Trehan gritted his teeth just as the demon hurled his body, back first, down across that raised knee.

Broken? Not yet.
Can’t get free; can’t trace.

Staff . . . where’s the fucking—

Goürlav hefted him up and heaved him down again.

Snap. Trehan perceived something giving way inside his body.
Not my spine?
He remained conscious and able to move.
Fight on!
Pummeling his fists into Goürlav’s bony flanks, he searched for the staff.

Have to get free!
How? How? The primordial had no weakness to exploit.
Made for war. No handholds, doesn’t feel my punches—

Goürlav raked his elbow horn across Trehan’s torso, ravaging the skin and muscle beneath it.
Now he’s playing with me.

With his head forced back like this, Trehan was utterly vulnerable. But he spied something from this angle he’d never seen before.
Can it be . . . ?
He squinted to clear the dots clouding his sight.

There. A pulse point in Goürlav’s neck.

Normally it was concealed by his bony beard. A visible pulse meant weakness.

Using all the strength he could muster, Trehan clenched his fist—and launched it directly at the area; with a wet bellow, Goürlav clamped his neck and reared back.

Freed of Goürlav’s hold, Trehan scrambled away, lumbering to his feet. He scanned the arena.
The staff . . . must get to it!

Everything happened so fast. He jerked his head around, spied Bettina’s wan face and frantic eyes, just before he saw a line of stark black against the red clay ground.

There, just in front of the grandstand!

But the primordial followed his gaze. Goürlav slitted those yellow eyes at Trehan, then tensed to trace for the staff. . . .

“I can’t watch any more of this!” Bettina cried. The vampire had been injured in several different places, scarcely able to stand.

“Brace yourself.” Morgana pinched her arm, hard. “It isn’t over.”

When Daciano had taken a blow that sent him careening across the ring, Bettina had nearly lost the contents of her stomach. Tears had welled when Goürlav had severed the skin on Daciano’s chest.

The vampire’s shirt had been torn away, revealing that gaping wound, a length of bloody lacerations just beneath his pec muscles. The more blood he lost, the less control he would have with teleporting. For some reason, he looked hell-bent on getting back to his staff, the one that she’d watched tumble end over end, bouncing ever farther away from him.

Goürlav traced for it. Somehow the vampire beat him there. In a stunning show of strength, Daciano shoved his fists straight out, connecting with Goürlav’s plated chest.

Now the
primordial
went flying!

Everyone gaped at the power left in Daciano’s battered body, at the coldness with which he still fought.

But Goürlav was back on his feet too soon. The vampire charged toward his opponent, gaining speed. With a roar, Goürlav accepted the challenge and began
tearing across the ring, quaking the ground with each footfall.

Two locomotives on the same track.

Daciano barreled into the primordial, shoulder first, as if he were busting down a door. The bone-rattling impact sent Goürlav sprawling to his back, the momentum grinding the being’s body across the ground in a wake of spraying clay.

Gasps sounded all around the ring. Had the primordial’s thick skin been pierced? All waited with bated breath for Child Terrors. Waiting . . .

None spawned.

Freed of his opponent, Daciano turned toward the staff. Lips thinned, he traced to it, gushing blood anew when he bent to seize it from the ground. As he straightened, he met Bettina’s gaze.

Behind him, Goürlav scrambled up and ran at Daciano once more, rattling the entire ring with his steps.

“Turn around, vampire!” Why keep his back to his foe?

Whatever Daciano saw in her expression eased the grim chill in his own; his shoulders went back.

“Turn—around!” she cried even more frantically. Goürlav was nearly upon him!

Still the vampire stared at her. She whispered, “Face him. Ah, gods,
please
.”

Mere feet away.

At the last moment, Daciano traced out of Goürlav’s way. The primordial went lurching forward. Behind him, a blaze erupted, like . . . like
dawn
.

As Goürlav whirled around, shielding his eyes against the sudden burst of light, Bettina’s jaw slackened.

The vampire was wielding the scythe of the Vrekeners, the one with a mystical blade made of flames.

The one that had been poised over Bettina three months ago.

Only now the black fire was replaced by flames that burned hotter and brighter than she could ever have imagined, like the surface of the sun.

“My gods,” Morgana murmured. “Do you know what that is?”

One of the most legendary weapons in the Lore, one of only four rumored to exist.

Bettina hadn’t recognized the plain black staff—the sole time she’d beheld that scythe, her eyes had been fixed on the glowing black blade.

Daciano traced into a lunge, launching himself at Goürlav, that scythe flaming above the vampire’s head in a mind-boggling tableau.

Goürlav seemed blinded, confused. Too late, he tried to teleport. Daciano had already swung.

The scythe sliced through one protective shoulder horn, then the primordial’s meaty neck, then another horn. Cutting like a laser.

The creature’s head bounced, its mouth still moving. Its body crashed to the ground like a felled moonraker tree. Spectators froze, dread sweeping over them.

Cas clutched her arm, readying to trace her to safety. At once, Raum teleported to join the squadron of demon guards. Unsheathing his sword, he ordered them to ready their own.

Waiting . . . waiting . . .

The primordial ceded death so slowly. The decapitated body twitched and writhed. Its arms flailed as if to search for its head.

Yet not a drop of blood spilled. The unnatural flame had seared Goürlav’s pebbly skin.

Cauterized? No blood? Then Daciano would . . . live?

He’ll live!
This was finished! The audience must’ve realized this just as Bettina did; they went wild. Streamers coasted down from the stands. The soldiers sagged with relief, then got to work securing the body; Raum bear-hugged anyone unlucky enough to be close by.

And the victor?

Daciano stood covered in his own blood, holding that unfathomable weapon. It cascaded light down over him, painting him like an anointed warrior. His bared chest heaved with bravely earned wounds. He seemed to have forgotten them. His sweat-slickened skin gleamed, corded muscles rippling.

Not only had he taken the Vrekeners’ heads, he’d taken one of their sources of power.

And he’d used it to defeat a monster.

Morgana breathed, “I want one of him all for myself!”

Trehan Daciano was . . . magnificent.

The crowd of mighty Deathly Ones started chanting,
“Prince of Shadow.”
And for a few wonderful moments, she was high from the victory, from pride in her vampire, from the roars of her people.

She narrowed her eyes to the sky.
I
dare
the Vrekeners to attack.

Cas released Bettina’s arm, drawing her mind back to him.

“It was a good fight,” he bit out. “And a clever move. No wonder the people chant his name now.”

How difficult that must be for Cas to say. His childhood had been miserable among the Deathly Ones, yet over the course of the last week, they’d begun to sing his praises.

But the kingdom was fickle. Much of the attention
he’d been enjoying had shifted to the vampire, his own people clamoring for Daciano.

She wanted Cas to have acclaim as well. She wanted him to have demonesses worshipping him and throwing garters and squeezing his muscles—

Her breath left her in a rush. With that thought, she knew the truth and accepted it: her feelings for Cas weren’t as she’d supposed them. . . .

Cheers reverberated even louder when Daciano folded the fire back into the staff, dousing it, controlling the weapon of an enemy with absolute surety.

Morgana murmured, “Now
that
is an accessory I must acquire.”

Bettina quickly asked, “Do you think you could use it to get my sorcery back?”

“If only it were so simple, freakling. It’s merely a channeling device, a conduit, to upload powers to their storage vault. But still, for a Sorceri to possess a scythe of the Vrekeners? How it would gall them! How it would rally us!”

Instead of acknowledging all the crowd’s praise, Daciano kept his eyes on the prize, staring up at Bettina with that dark, arresting gaze.

At the end of each match in the past, his expression had said:
I’m fighting for you. Soon you’ll be mine.