Shadow's Claim (31 page)

Bettina squeezed her goblet, surprised to find it bending in her grip. “They declared war on us when they nearly assassinated me, the future queen of this realm! And what about Eleara? They
succeeded
with her. What’s to stop them from wiping the Sorceri out completely?”
From wiping
me
out?
“Why can’t we do anything?”

“Though it’s difficult for our kind to wage a war—when we can’t
find
our enemies and their stronghold is
impervious
to sorcery—we’re not without victories. Why only six hundred years ago, Sabine decapitated the Vrekener leader, while her sister Melanthe maimed his son! All in one night! It’s said the son can’t fly without grueling pain to this day. A Vrekener who hates to fly? That must count for something.”

Sabine and Melanthe were both legendary for their deeds. As the Queen of Illusions, Sabine could make her victims see their worst nightmares. She’d used that power to seize the leader’s own mystical scythe—and behead him with it.

“In any case, don’t you think I have non-Vrekener concerns in my own queendom?” Morgana continued. “Portents bode ill; a nemesis rises.”

“La Dorada.” When Morgana didn’t deny it, Bettina said, “Is she alive?” La Dorada was the Queen of Evil, which meant that she could control evil beings. Including Morgana.

A sorceress who could master Morgana—as easily as Morgana could master her. Which one would get to the other first?

“I don’t yet know if she lives,” Morgana said. “Considering her arrival may harken the apocalypse, I’ve made this a
bit
of a priority. Besides,
Raum
was tasked with Vrekener disposal. Yet whenever I ask him about his progress, he’s very evasive.”

“He said the same thing about you concerning my power.”

“What?”
And there went Morgana’s braids. “How dare he cast aspersions!”

“Do you have my ability or not?”

“And now you doubt me. I’m wounded. Terribly. If I weren’t wearing a face glamour of indifference, you’d see my eyes glinting exquisitely.”

“Just answer me.”

“Do I? Don’t I? You’ll have to wait and see if your godmother has kept her word to her most beloved goddaughter.”

Bettina didn’t know what to think. Frustration welled inside her. “I’m upholding
my
end of the deal, and if you two aren’t—”

Morgana dipped her claw in her wine, then flicked it at Bettina.

She glared, wiping the wine from her cheek with a swipe of her shoulder. When Bettina flicked wine back, Morgana retaliated with a wave of her hand; suddenly a bank of snow tumbled over Bettina.

Bettina gritted her teeth, brushing off her shoulders.

“That’s how you say ‘The subject is closed’ in Yeti.” Expression darkening, Morgana added, “Shall Abaddon have its first blizzard?”

And just like that, the matter was closed.
I
hate
it when she does that.

Morgana’s pique disappeared as swiftly as it’d arrived. “Look at the crowds. I can
hear
your tax coffers growing fatter by the second. Raum is wily in that, at least.”

“Why do you disapprove of him so much?”

“I don’t disapprove of him. I
hate
him. He’s demonic and coarse. He fought me fang and claw over the lady’s choice round. Tonight he’ll see how right I was to include it.”

“Still don’t care to tell me anything about it? Such as if I’ll have a chance to take Goürlav out?”

“A chance? Hmm. There is a chance. And that’s all I’ll—”

“Say on the matter,” Bettina finished for her. She set her dented glass aside, resting her elbows on the railing, peering below. Something caught Bettina’s eye. A raven-haired female was sauntering through the crowds—though others were steering clear of her.

It had to be the odd spectator who’d been showing up every night. She had pointed ears and wore T-shirts emblazoned with
PRINCE OF SHADOW #1!
The strange fey creature brought buckets of theater popcorn that she never ate. She tried to start waves and chants, cheering Daciano on.

“Morgana, do you know anything about that weird female who shows up for each night’s fight, the one
who wears trashy T-shirts?” Was she a former lover of his?

Bettina sniffed to herself.
If so, that bitch ooooolllld.

“Hmm? Don’t concern yourself with her.”

“You didn’t answer my question. How is she connected to the Prince of Shadow? Tell me.” The female looked like a Valkyrie. Considered “good guys” in the Lore, the Valkyries were major Vertas players.

We don’t get many of her ilk here.
In times past, the Deathly Ones had sided with the more nefarious factions of the Lore. For this Accession, Raum had already made gestures to ally with the Horde and other demonarchies aligned with the Pravus.

“Your eyes go bright, freakling. Are you jealous of the female? After all,
you
are the Shadow Prince’s Bride.”

“Of course I’m not jealous.”
I might be jealous.

“He looks at you as if you’re a virgin vein. There’s much to be said for obsessive hunger.” Morgana patted her hand knowingly. “Solid partnerships have been built on less. Did I mention that I spoke with him the other night while he awaited his bout?”

“You did
what
?” Questions about the raven-haired spectator disappeared.

“I told him, ‘You must be a Forbearer.’ He merely said, ‘Must I?’ then turned away. That dripping disdain—so sexy!”

Morgana had
no idea
how sexy that vampire was.
I do. Because he was mine for three brief encounters.

“I decided I wanted his tongue on me; I couldn’t decide if I wanted it still attached to his mouth or not. So I held off. Now I’m glad I did, since you’re so possessive of him.”

“I’m
not
possessive.” Morgana together with Daciano? The idea made her want to screech.

“And there go your eyes once more. Raum has shown favoritism at every turn, gunning for a demon king. It would serve him right if you wed a vampire.” With a chuckle, she turned to leave.

But at the doorway, she gazed back with a thoughtful look on her face, offering Bettina cryptic wisdom: “Remember, freakling, the greatest thing about having power is the mere
having of power
. Use the latter well, and you’ll never have to use the former.”

J
ust hours ago, Trehan had been in his tent, sharpening his gleaming sword, grappling with a fury so strong it scalded him inside.

Now he sat at his desk, cleaning his well-bloodied sword, face spattered with gore—and still struggling to rein in his overwhelming rage.

I’m backsliding.

But didn’t the term
backsliding
indicate that he’d reached this level of fury before? He’d never known it as he had on this day.

After wading through Bettina’s memories, he’d finally seen things he couldn’t unsee.
I did things I’d
never
undo.

He peered at the burlap bag at his feet and the plain black staff beside it.
Think of something else,
he told himself. The tournament began in minutes.
Change the direction of your musings.

What else was there to think of besides Bettina? What else . . . ?

Ah, Dacia.
My former home.

Would the Realm of Blood and Mist soon have a new king?

After days of tracking Lothaire all over the world and spying on the vampire’s luxurious
York
penthouse, the cousins had learned much about their potential ruler—and his Bride.

Indeed, there’s a catch.
Lothaire’s female was Elizabeth Peirce, a human “mountain girl” peasant. She was pretty for a mortal, with long dark hair and an intelligent gaze.

But humans perished so easily.

Unfortunately, transforming her into a vampire would be nigh impossible. Females rarely survived the transition, and never with Horde blood, polluted and dark as it was.

Lothaire was indeed on some kind of mission; Trehan would bet his soul that the Enemy of Old sought some way to make his Bride undying.

Lothaire’s mission—combined with his madness—had made for some precarious episodes. To ensure his and Elizabeth’s safety, the cousins had been forced to secretly intercede—up until the time when secrecy had no longer been possible.

The Enemy of Old now knew they were tracking him. . . .

But with each day, the vampire was healing under his female’s influence. At times, he’d proved as calculating as any Dacian.

Pros: Lothaire was more powerful than any other vampire and would make a mighty regent. Cons: He remained bloodthirsty—in all senses of the term.

Still, Mirceo had already voted to install Lothaire. “A red-eyed king who bites others with impunity? My
ballot reads:
yes,
” Mirceo had said with a wink, shocking the older three cousins.

Trehan had scowled at him. “Biting isn’t . . . Dacians simply don’t bite others,” he’d said, sounding prudish and old, even to himself. “Keeping our blood untainted is what separates us from the Horde.”

“Really, Uncle? You know mated Dacians must taste each other’s blood. Even if no one speaks of it. Perhaps with such a king as Lothaire, bloodtaking will be taboo no more?”

“Exchanging blood could happen accidentally,” Stelian had pointed out, “but a bite is consciously done. We’re above such needs.”

Apparently not me.
Maybe Trehan had Horde blood in his ancestry . . . ?

Viktor was on the fence about installing Lothaire, saying, “He’s much worse than I’d thought. The only way I’d agree is if he figures out how to bond with his female and make her immortal. Oh, and if we withhold as much pertinent information from him as possible.” Why? “So he has reason to keep us alive.”

Stelian had grown dead set against Lothaire.

And Trehan?
I am . . . ready
. New ruler or not, the kingdom was no longer Trehan’s mistress. Now he was free to serve another completely, a wide-eyed halfling he would kill to possess.

To protect.
Zeii mea, I want to protect her forever.

Today, at last, he had begun.

“Welcome, all, to the Morgana show!” her godmother announced to the crowd.

Bettina sighed.
This is going to be a long night.
She
gazed around the grandstand, noting all the changes Morgana’s minions had wrought over the day.

Sorceri banners of crimson and purple now swathed the area, like slashes of paint on a gray Abaddon canvas. Crystal domes levitated above the great torches, the glass casting brilliant prisms over everything.

Was it just her, or had the Sorceri banquet table lengthened—while the demon table had shortened? And no meat graced the demons’ feast, which Bettina thought was unnecessarily cruel.

Raum sat beside Bettina on the dais with his goblet all but attached to his face. He was cruising toward battle-ax mode, casting Morgana black looks.

There had to be a story between those two, something more than Bettina knew.

Morgana was in rare form tonight, dressed in her most impressive pieces. Her gold bustier was encrusted with diamonds—she called the piece her “Valkyrie slayer”—and her full-length skirt was
sequined
with more diamonds, hundreds of them.

Across her face, she had sapphires affixed in the shape of a mask. Her eyes glowed with her amusement, lighting the gems. But her headdress was the most awing sight to behold, a fan of gold, studded with mismatched jewels—choice heirlooms from all the Loreans she’d slain over her long life.

Bettina couldn’t lift the piece by herself. Three Inferi had to heft it atop Morgana’s shoulders. Yet the sorceress carried it with aplomb.

Now Morgana cupped her hand to her ear. “I said,
‘Welcome to the Morgana show!’ ”

Sorceri cheered—frantically, as if their lives depended on it.
Wise
.

Apparently dissatisfied with the level of applause,
she announced, “
I
am the one who sponsored the preceding spectacles, including the
floor show
—”