Shadow's Claim

Blood and Mist, the secreted lands of the mighty Dacians.

The royal city below was still at this hour. Only the sound of Dacia’s bubbling blood fountains could be heard.

Across from his residence stood the majestic black stone castle, the heart of the realm—abandoned without a king. How many of his kinsmen had perished trying to seize that keep? How much deceit and murder surrounded it?

The warring houses of the royal family had once boasted hundreds of members each—now dwindled down to a handful.

For an immortal family, they knew death so well.

Trehan was the last born to the House of Shadow, the assassin arm of the family. Though he was a potential contender for the crown—along with four of his lethal cousins—he had no real aspiration to seize it. A quiet loner by nature, he loathed spectacle and attention, was content to blend into the shadows.

He only wanted to perform his duty. For nearly a millennium, he’d been the enforcer of law, a merciless assassin.

As his long-dead father had oft told him, “You are the sword of the kingdom, Trehan. Dacia will be your family, your friend, your mistress, the grand love of your life. That is your lot, Son. Want for nothing else. And you will never be disappointed.”

Trehan had once foolishly entertained secret hopes, but he’d eventually embraced his father’s teachings. As was logical.

I want for nothing. This was his lot, to await down here in the earth until Mother Dacia needed his sword. To strike, execute, then return.

So why this unaccountable restlessness? This sudden . . . frustration?

It was similar to that niggling feeling of some task forgotten. Except this feeling had teeth, gnawing at his chest.

And why should Trehan have a sense of something left undone? He always did everything that was expected of him. Ever cold, ever rational Trehan couldn’t explain this.

What have I left undone? Rubbing a palm over his chest, Trehan crossed to one of countless bookshelves. He selected a recently acquired explorer’s narrative, adjourning to his favorite seat before the fire, planning to lose himself in tales of life outside this mountain, of emotions he never felt, and interactions he never experienced.

Not on this day.

After rereading the same page a dozen times, he closed the tome, staring into the flames as he struggled to identify the hollow ache in his dormant heart.

His fingers tightened on the book, sinking into the cover. Gods damn it, what have I left undone?

Yet the dread only mounted. Then came one word, a whisper in his mind. . . .

Protect.

Chapter 2

The Plane of Abaddon,

Demonarchy of the Deathly Ones

THREE MONTHS LATER

“Bettina, you don’t understand,” Caspion muttered as he gazed out into the night. He clutched the balcony rail with one hand and a silver mug of demon brew with the other. “I’ve done something that I can’t undo, something that even I can’t talk my way out of.”

Bettina stood beside him at the rail, drink in hand as well. “Oh, for gold’s sake, what could possibly be so bad?”

Bad was recovering for months from a savage beating, then returning to “olden ways.”

Bad was being offered up as a tournament prize by one’s godparents.

“Can you not relax, Cas? Enjoy the night and tell me what worries you.” Though her apartments in one of Castle Rune’s great spires were now a sort of jail, the view couldn’t be beaten.

Her balcony circled the entire spire and was elevated above the fog that swathed the medieval town of Rune below. From here, she and Caspion could see the tops of the giant moonraker trees that stretched from the marsh five hundred feet into the air. Bats jagged in front of the waxing moon.

The setting was as romantic as she could have hoped. Sidling closer to Cas, she basked in the warmth emanating from his big warrior’s body. But he exhaled wearily, taking a drink from his mug, his troubled gaze fixed below him.

As an adult death demon, Cas could see in the dark, could even penetrate Rune’s infamous fog bank. What was he watching for? Why was he nervous?

She hated seeing her soon-to-be lover in this condition. His eyes were bloodshot, his golden hair disheveled. Fatigue was etched into his normally flawless face.

“Surely my predicament must be worse than yours.” She was about to be married off to whichever “suitor” prevailed in the upcoming tournament for her hand. Unless I seduce Cas tonight . . . “Did you get caught bedding another nobleman’s daughter?” she asked, biting back her jealousy. Caspion was legendary for his conquests.

“If only that was all.” He downed his brew.

So Bettina drained her mug as well, coughing as she finished. She’d never had more than a few sips of this potent concoction before tonight, preferring lighter Sorceri wines. But she was on a mission, would do anything to achieve it.

“Easy, girl,” Cas said with a ghost of his usual heartbreaking grin. “That drink gains on you with each drop.”

Eyes watering, she forced a smile. “It tastes so . . . different.” Like fermented ghoul urine, I imagine.

Bettina knew that this brew left one relatively sober up to a tipping point, beyond which sudden drunkenness ensued. Then one became tore up from the floor up, as her snarky new servant would say.

Hey, as long as Cas was drunk with her. “I’d love some more, darling. Let’s go back inside.” Back to my softly lit apartments and cozy settee.

“A final cup, then,” he muttered, turning toward her sitting area.

Inside her spire, all twelve rooms were filled with imported silks and antiques, adorned with flame chandeliers of the finest crystal. Everything was luxurious, polished splendor.

Well, everything except the small, dented copper bell on her coffee table. . . .

After pouring them another round, Cas sank down on the settee, raking his fingers through his curling hair.

She joined him there, gazing at his handsome visage and muscled frame with a sigh of appreciation.

Standing more than six and a half feet tall, he towered over her five-and-a-half-foot height. His eyes were a hypnotic blue, turning stormy black with strong emotions. His proud horns were the ideal size, curving back along his fair head like a Grecian wreath. He kept them polished; they glinted like amber in the candlelight of her room.

He had sublime features—a strong chin, broad cheekbones, and full, kissable lips. She could only imagine how incredible those lips would feel against her own. They’d never kissed, had never touched beyond a hug.

She’d fallen for Caspion from the moment she’d first seen him ten years ago, when she’d been only twelve. Her beloved sire, King Mathar, had just died, and she and Raum had been presiding over Abaddon’s royal court. Or at least Raum had been presiding, reluctantly.