Shadow's Claim

pawns, controlled by powerful masters, who’ll merely cede the crown if they win.”

“You’d let a pawn win me?”

“We can’t exactly prove who’s a pawn until after the tournament.”

Bettina narrowed her eyes. “There’s more you aren’t telling me.”

“There’s a last class of competitor. . . .” He patted her hand, a consoling gesture. “The condemned.”

“Excuse me?”

“They were sentenced to die for various crimes in their home planes. Their only option is to compete in this, win, then turn over the crown to the ruling power.”

Bettina was aghast.

“All that matters naught!” Raum assured her with the gentlest tap on her shoulder (when he would’ve whaled someone else on the back). “I still have hope that Caspion will enter and defeat them all.”

Hope? He and Morgana both seemed to have pinned all their hopes on, well, hope. Bettina wanted something more concrete, thank you very much. Besides, Caspion had no intention of entering.

“I’ve seen the way you look at him,” Raum said. “That lad’s the one you want, isn’t he?”

He doesn’t want me back.

Under his breath, he said, “Morgana fought me on him, said she saw you with someone ‘more exotic.’ But if Caspion enters, she can’t say anything.” Raum gazed around. “Where is he anyway?”

“I haven’t seen him all day.”

“There are still a couple of hours left until the entry deadline.”

Morgana jabbed her with an elbow. “Here comes the first contestant. Now remember, don’t bow your head too deeply. Even if your subjects are mere demons, you still have royal blood. . . .”

One by one, squires and delegates introduced their champions. Morgana provided continual—and scathing— commentary, as regular as a laugh track.

Most were representatives from the various demonarchies, which pleased Raum. Several storm, ice, stone, rage, and fire demons were in attendance. Even a winged Volar demon entered. Not to mention the excretorian, who left a trail of pus on the sign-in desk.

A few contestants stood out. A snarling Lykae, with his ripped shirt and wild eyes, was surely a pawn. His three cloaked “squires” manhandled him to the sign-in station, then collared him away.

“Those three are warlocks,” Morgana murmured. “An ancient order called Those Best Forgotten.” She and Raum shared a look. “A-list,” she said in a yesss! tone.

Raum, however, appeared uneasy, like a teenager whose illicit party had outgrown his sire’s den.

Morgana added happily, “And right before the Accession!” That brutal immortal war—when all factions were forced to battle for supremacy. With each day, the warring Pravus and Vertas alliances strengthened. . . .

Next, two handsome centaurs approached, their sharpened hooves ringing on the walkway. With their bows strapped across their bare chests, the pair gave Bettina a flattering show of attention.

After them, a Horde vampire lord bowed courteously, but his bloodred gaze was restless—so different from Daciano’s. Once the lord signed in, he hissed at the Lykae, his natural-born enemy.

The sole troll in the procession was enormous, its shoulders nearly as wide as it was tall. Bristly hairs dotted its body, covering its lengthy tail. In one grubby hand, the creature carried a spiked club bigger than Bettina’s body.

She muttered to Morgana, “Now we’re just being ridiculous.”

Morgana shrugged. “The tournament is open to all.”

There were the fire peoples: a Chimaero with skin that turned to flames and three Ajatars, dual-headed dragon shifters. Then came the snakelike competitors: two Cerunnos—princes of the Serpent Lands—and Meduso, son of Medusa.

“That one has a poisonous tongue,” Morgana supplied in a delighted tone. “Haven’t you heard? Once you go snake, you never go back.”

Bettina sighed. I feel like I’m on the Island of Misfit Toys.

During a lull in the procession—the next demon appeared to be falling-down drunk—Bettina rubbed her hand over her nape, sensing something amiss. More than what’s obviously amiss?

Naturally, most in attendance were watching her, but for some reason, her sixth sense was clamoring with awareness. . . .

Chapter 11

Hidden in mist, Trehan had traced to Rune, back to the drawbridge he’d crossed such a short time ago. He’d stowed his belongings beneath it, then moved toward the Iron Ring.

Though the deadline to enter was imminent, Trehan still hadn’t made a decision. Probably because he hadn’t yet laid eyes on his Bride.

Instead, he’d glided along the periphery of the crowd, studying the large arena and the massive stadium-style seats overflowing with spectators.

He’d tried to imagine what it would be like to kill in front of them. For so long he’d hidden his skill—now to possibly display it in front of thousands?

Soon the grandstand would be in sight. She would be in sight.

Ever cold, ever logical, Trehan didn’t make impulse decisions. Whenever someone tried to create a sense of urgency to move him to action, he dug his heels in, preferring absolute inaction.

But he feared that once he saw her, the need he’d felt last night would redouble, his control faltering.

Over and over, he thought, Your Bride or your house? Your female or your kingdom?

No more stalling. He raised his gaze to the stage . . .

There she was.

Under the bright arena flames, his dark-eyed halfling looked like his most fevered dream in her jewels and revealing silks. Her dark hair was plaited into shining braids all around her face. Her jade-green mask highlighted her brilliant eyes.

First thought: Fuck the kingdom.

A sharp shake of his head. Steady, Trehan. Be rational, investigate.

Beside her were a male demon and a sorceress—must be the demon duke and the Queen of Sorceri.

Though Bettina seemed oblivious to all the gawking eyes on her, he did not like that most of her body was displayed to a multitude of covetous male gazes.

That’s my Bride they lust after.

Despite her penchant for baring her body, her face was again concealed by a mask. I haven’t fully seen her face, and still I consider this. But even as the thought arose, he realized that didn’t matter. The physical was only part of what attracted him.

Still hidden, Trehan traced to a line of demonic contestants, listening to their conversations.

One young animus demon admitted to another, “I don’t have a choice. Either I enter or my father will kill me.”

A pathos demon said, “Of course I want the crown. Doesn’t mean I won’t breed on her for three litters a year.”

A rage demon said, “The halfling’s part sensual sorceress, part lusty demoness. I’d fight for a single night with a creature like that, much less an eternity. She’s as good as beneath me.”

The last two comments made Trehan’s vision blur with rage, his fangs sharpening uncontrollably. No, be reasonable. This isn’t you—

Reasonable? When all he wanted to do was rip out their arteries with his teeth?

Could Bettina hear any of these exchanges? She held herself very still, very regally—a detached beauty. So different from the shy seductress of the evening before.