Shadow's Claim

For a brief moment, Trehan considered that Viktor might be moved to help because once, long, long ago, they had been friends. Then he dismissed the idea. They had too much history between them.

Trehan said, “I’d contemplated appealing to her godparents before the tournament begins. But how exactly would I present my case? Should I say, ‘I can’t tell you who I am, what royal line I descend from, where I hail from, or what my properties used to be. But give me your ward anyway’?”

“What about stealing her after the tournament—but before the full-moon wedding?”

“Back to the summoning medallion. Whoever wins it will control her movements.”

“If you entered, you’d have to leave the mist? To be seen by all?”

Trehan just stifled a shudder. “Yes. By all.”

“You’d be banished—and then I wouldn’t have to kill you,” Viktor said smugly. “At least not pressingly.”

Trehan gave him the look that comment deserved.

“Just think, you’d be king of one realm at least.”

“That’s actually a negative for me. Ruling a rainy, backwoods swamp plane filled with Deathly Ones? What do I know about ruling demons? Or about rain, for that matter?” He waved to indicate Dacia’s stone sky. “And why would they accept a nameless vampire to govern them? Clearly, the tournament is not an option. I could never turn my back on my kingdom and abandon my house, not when the Dacians need a king.”

“There’s another who could rule us.”

Trehan drank deeply, keen to get to the mead. “Lothaire again?” Lothaire Daciano, the Enemy of Old, was a three-thousand-year-old vampire gone red-eyed and insane from bloodlust—a prime example of why Dacians refrained from drinking others.

Lothaire was half Horde, half Dacian. Wholly mad.

Did he have a claim to the throne? Undoubtedly. His own house had always ruled.

What he lacked was a grasp of reality. Though the cousins had intermittently kept tabs on him, they’d never revealed themselves to him. “You’d truly accept a red-eyed king?” Horde vampires drained their prey to the quick, becoming addicted to the power and madness that act brought. Lothaire was rumored to have countless memories rattling around in his head.

In fact, it was said that he used the cosaşad to his advantage, drinking chosen victims just to get to their secrets.

“Perhaps I admire him,” Viktor said. “His bargaining is masterful. He would bring his fabled book of debts to the kingdom like a dowry.”

Lothaire’s book was also legendary. For millennia, he’d maneuvered Loreans into life-or-death situations, offering to save them—for a price. Rumor held that his debtors had vowed to do anything he asked of them when he called in the debt, and that he’d recorded their bargains meticulously.

“He’s probably the strongest vampire alive,” Viktor continued. “We could do worse for a king. Besides, I thought you’d be all for it, eager to end all our family animosity.”

“Don’t you tire of it?”

“Who are you talking to, Trehan? I live for animosity.”

And Viktor had plenty of cause for it. Trehan’s own father had killed Viktor’s. Of course, Viktor’s mother had slain Trehan’s. Throw in Stelian’s parents and Mirceo’s and they had all ended up dead eventually.

The blood vendettas of the Daciano houses were legion, inherited from their ancestors, with each generation adding new ones. “Then why would you even consider Lothaire?”

“Maybe I have no desire to be king either,” Viktor said. “Perhaps I only fight for it because I know I’d be better at it than any of you. Give me a vampire who’s actually more powerful than I am, and I’ll help guide him as he rules.”

From what Trehan had heard—and seen—of Lothaire, the male wouldn’t prove easy to “guide.”

Viktor viewed the invitation once more, this time with a look of lust on his face. “Zeii mea.” My gods. “Fights. To the death.” He actually groaned. “You could be in that ring. And with your clear eyes, everyone would think you’re a Forbearer.” One among an army of turned humans who didn’t drink from the flesh. Viktor smiled evilly. “They’ll believe you are weak, having no idea what you really are. Already an advantage.”

Trehan gazed down at his drink, lost in thought. The fighting didn’t factor into his decision whatsoever. If he chose to enter the tournament, he would win. Period.

Instead, his thoughts centered on another battle. Could I possibly win Bettina’s affections? On that score, he was much less certain.

“Come, Cousin, there’s more that you’re not telling me.”

Trehan quickly glanced up, the words falling from his lips: “She’s in love with another. With . . . Caspion.”

Damn it, what did she see in that demon? If those two had had some kind of relationship, then Caspion hadn’t been true to her, had been in a brothel this very night.

Viktor winced. “Bloody bad luck, Trey.” He sounded genuinely sorry for Trehan.

And yet tomorrow Viktor would plot to murder him all over again.

Unless I’m not here.

“He must die,” Viktor said. “Even Mirceo has accepted that.”

Mirceo had been Caspion’s sponsor into the kingdom, using all his influence to campaign for the demon’s acceptance. Mirceo had never expected Caspion to bolt, a first for the charming Dacian.

“You have other assassins under your command,” Viktor pointed out. “Get someone else to kill the demon.”

Trehan rubbed his brow. “By my hand or by my command won’t make a difference with her.”

“Is the demon entering the tournament? Then you could kill him in combat.”

“I haven’t relinquished Dacia yet, Cousin. If I decide to enter—”

“You’ll enter.”

“—then I will have spent my entire life in service to the kingdom, only to abandon it in a time of need, for a female who doesn’t even want me!”

“It makes sense that she would prefer Caspion,” Viktor said in a thoughtful tone. “Apparently, he is irresistible to females—and not a few males. There’s a reason Cousin Mirceo petitioned for him to enter Dacia. Alas, the demon is much better-looking than you are, old man.”

Trehan scowled. “I’m barely older than you are.”

“You said your Bride was young. She likely doesn’t know her mind yet. Her feelings for Caspion could be nothing more than a schoolgirl infatuation with a dashing demon.”

Bettina was woefully young, and she’d obviously been overprotected. Perhaps she simply hadn’t been around other males? She might have bonded with the one given most access to her.

Or was this only wishful thinking? He knew his looks didn’t compare to the demon’s—admittedly Caspion was . . . without flaw—but Trehan had other laudable qualities.

I’m a good killer. A talented scholar. Fuck. How could she possibly resist?

Then why has fate chosen her for me?

Bettina, Princess of Abaddon, was the only female in existence—and in all times past and future—who’d proved to be his Bride. . . .

He reminded himself that she had responded to him. She’d inhaled deeply of his skin, moaning in reaction. She’d moistened her bloodred lips as she’d investigated him with her soft fingertips. She’d murmured in a throaty voice, “My gods, I love your body.”

She’d delighted in touching me.

If he could seduce her into a similar situation, he could make her realize who’d awakened those feelings in her.

He had to believe that, given the chance, he could make her desire him again.

But that was the crux of this all: the mere chance would cost him dearly. His house would perish forever, his duty—and honor—with it. Competing in that tournament will cost me everything.

“You’ve obviously got it bad, old man,” Viktor said. “The girl burned a hole in your brain, did she?”