Shadow's Claim

“Bettina, you don’t have to reveal details, just tell me where to hunt.”

A place hidden in the heavens that no demon—or vampire—has ever reached! A place protected from all sorcery! Bettina stood. Enough of this. She set her glass on his desk, then headed toward the door.

“Wait, woman.” He traced in front of her, blocking the exit.

“Already I don’t want to be here. I don’t want to be with you. And you just keep digging.”

“At least tell me if you’re still in danger.”

“That’s more digging!”

He inhaled deeply. “I find myself in a position I’ve never been in before. I’m besieged by . . . instinct. And you are the focus of it.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means I need to kill. For unending years, I was naught but death, with no judgment, only duty. But now . . .”

“But now we’re done talking about my past, or I’m leaving.”

He parted his lips to say something, thought better of it, then said, “Very well.” He ushered her back to the divan, handing her drink to her and reclaiming his own. “What would you like to speak of? I’ll accommodate you.”

“You know more about me than I’d supposed. I know very little about you and your kind.”

Another slight frown. “I’m not used to explaining what I am. Unless it’s to someone I’m about to kill. And what I have been for over nine hundred years has changed drastically in the last twenty-four hours.”

Cas had said that Daciano was at least eight centuries old. But to hear it from the vampire’s own lips . . . “You’re over forty times my age?”

Had a flush colored his chiseled cheekbones? “Give or take.”

“You were—give or take—eight hundred and eighty years old when I was born!”

Voice gone low, he said, “So now you know how very long I’ve waited for you to come into this world.”

Now she felt her cheeks flush. “You said you were a prince. Is your father king of the Dacians?”

“My father’s long dead. I’m one of several contenders for the throne.” He glanced down at his goblet. “Or I was.”

“You really can’t return?”

“No.”

She almost felt guilt about his loss. Then she remembered she’d never asked him to give up his realm. “But now you intend to be the king of the Abaddonae?”

“I have absolutely no aspirations toward that. Though I understand that co-ruling this plane is expected of me, if I intend to live my life with you.”

The vampire made it sound like the crown—which every suitor coveted—was a necessary evil he’d put up with to be with her. Even Cas must desire the throne, if just a little.

Flustered, she fiddled with her mask—her nervous tell. His gaze fixed on her hand. “What weapons have you tonight?” he asked, pointing to the four rings on her right hand. “There must be more to those than meets the eye.”

Was it any wonder that her jewelry designs had become so . . . dark? Sometimes she thought she might have gone mad without that creative outlet.

And for some reason, this vampire was intrigued by it.

Her guardians considered her craft demeaning. Caspion scratched his head, unable to understand her compulsion to create.

She remembered the day she’d called a meeting with Raum and Morgana to discuss her education. “I want to learn more about design. And mortals are surprisingly good at it. They use computers and tools I can only dream of here.”

“What would you do with this knowledge?” Raum had asked. “Continue with your hobby?”

“It’s no hobby. I’ve been commissioning my pieces here and there to acquaintances. But I’m thinking bigger. I want to sell them . . . I want to sell them on the open market!”

They’d looked at her as if she’d grown two heads.

“Become a tradesman?” Morgana had hissed.

Bettina had corrected her: “A tradesperson. . . .”

Now, in a coaxing tone, the vampire said, “Come, Bett, show me what weapon I’ll encounter tonight if I displease you.” Was there a hint of a smile on those grim lips of his?

“Fine.” She demonstrated how the rings interlocked to form brass knuckles.

He gently grasped her fingertips, holding her hand to examine the rings thoroughly. At the contact, some kind of electric charge passed through her, like a bolt of . . . anticipation.

He must have felt something too. His voice was huskier when he asked, “You devised this yourself?”

“Yes.” She stiffened, drawing her hand away. “All by my little self.” Why were others always so surprised by this?

“It’s clever.”

Chin raised, she said, “I can see a problem and visualize a solution.”

“What design are you working on now?”

“A commissioned piece.”

“You sell your work?”

She bristled. “What of it?”

“I have a niece who is obsessed with weapons. She would love to have something like this.”

“You want to commission a piece?”

“Absolutely. And then I’d insist on watching you work.”

Bettina blinked at him. “You really are interested?”

“I’m a weapons master. You create weapons. I think it’s fascinating.”

“You don’t have a problem with your Bride being in trade? It’s not exactly decorous. I thought an old- fashioned vampire like you would want me to quit.”

“Though I’ll be loath to let you out of our bed for any reason, I’d never try to restrict something you enjoy.”

Another fitful adjustment of her mask. Let me out of bed?

“And as for the trade stigma, I’ve lived my life obeying the rules, enforcing the rules. I cast off that rigid existence to be with you. Perhaps the beauty of being a queen is that you get to do whatever you like.”

“I’m not naïve.” I might be naïve. “I know that’s not how the world works.”

“Then change the world.”

The world? She could barely change the subject.

“For now, let’s discuss this commission,” he said.

“How would you even get the gift to your niece?”

“Not easily. She never leaves the kingdom, so I’d have to send it through another one of my family. I’m not shunned by them all. Well, not exactly. Let’s just say that I suspect I haven’t seen the last of the Dacianos.” There seemed to be a wealth of emotion in that statement, but she couldn’t decipher it. Relief? Grief? “When will you finish the piece you’re working on now?”

She mumbled, “Probably sometime after I actually start it. Which should occur after I figure out what to create.”

That hint of a grin teased his lips once more.

“My patroness is very exacting, and I’ve sent her weapon after weapon. She wants something new.”

“The piece you wear now is only a few modifications from being a bagh nakh.” Brass knuckles with claws jutting out.

Now she had to grin. Not many threw that term around. “I already made her one.”