Shadow's Claim

That innate sorcery had been like her soul. It’d been so intrinsic that magic would emanate from her body whenever she’d experienced strong emotions. Heated whirls of light had marked her happiness, her excitement.

Now . . . nothing.

Trehan had to get it back for her. Or, he thought darkly, help her steal another Sorceri’s. What wouldn’t Trehan do for her?

A fiery arrow to the temple? There was no recovery from it.

But he still lacked the memory of her attack. I must see what happened to my Bride.

To find her foes and make them pay—

He sensed another’s presence inside the tent. Eyes flashing open, hand shooting for his weapon, he traced to his feet. “You won’t catch me unawares, Viktor. Cease trying.”

His cousin materialized in front of him. “That’s not my intention. Remember, I’m in no rush to kill you now.”

Trehan didn’t even argue the impossibility of Viktor managing to do that. “We still have a blood vendetta between us.” An inherited one, but all the same.

“That’s the thing about vendettas. There’s literally no expiration date.” He tsked at Trehan’s appearance. “You look like hell, old man.”

Understandable. He’d had little sleep and less blood. When he’d tried to drink a meal earlier, he’d spat out the contents of his goblet. He feared all blood would be tasteless after Bettina’s. “Are you here for a reason?”

“Truce for the eve. I’m here because I need your assistance.”

Trehan glanced at him with surprise. Viktor simply didn’t ask for help. This ought to be good.

Another male voice sounded: “We all need your assistance.” Mirceo? He’d just appeared inside the tent, along with Stelian.

All the royal male cousins in one place. At least, all the sane ones.

“Truce?” Trehan raised his sword. “I’m supposed to believe that the four of us are in one tent—and we’re all getting out alive?” Each of them was dark haired and tall, each bearing the Daciano stamp upon their faces. Yet they were no family. “I haven’t any patience for your jesting. Draw your weapons.”

Viktor shrugged. “I vow to the Lore that we hold no ill intent toward you.”

“Tonight, at least,” Stelian added.

A vow to the Lore couldn’t be broken. “I don’t know why you’ve come, and I don’t care. I’ve my own concerns now. A life of my own.”

“It appears your suit goes well,” Viktor said.

“What do you know of it?” Trehan demanded, but he feared he knew. The Dacians were observers. . . .

Viktor smiled widely. “Your Bride is lovely in mist.”

“You watched us?” This shouldn’t surprise him, but, gods, it enraged him.

“I was mainly watching the fights. And we turned Mirceo’s head away,” Viktor said. “Eventually.”

Trehan didn’t know whom to attack first. Their gazes had been on his Bride’s trembling body; they’d seen her skin kissed with Trehan’s mist. His fangs went sharp.

“Such aggression,” Stelian said disapprovingly. “You’re as bad as Viktor usually is. Your blooding has turned you savage.”

“The better to bite your throat out with, Stelian.”

“You’d attack when my sword remains sheathed?”

Damn them! None had drawn.

“Look at those fangs, Trey!” Viktor exclaimed. “Still maintaining that you haven’t bitten your Bride?”

Never bitten her. But he’d taken her blood. And I’ll do it again.

Stelian turned up his flask. “You can learn to control your fangs, Cousin.”

Can I? Trehan shook his head hard. “Fight me, or leave! My break from you was clean.”

“And it was your leaving that opened up a dialogue among the three of us,” Mirceo said.

“What are you talking about?”

Though Mirceo was normally a male who took little seriously—a notorious hedonist—his gray eyes were grave. “We’ve realized that we’ve all been fighting for something we don’t want to win. You gave up your right to the throne. But here’s the thing, Uncle. None of us want it either.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I’ll reach my immortality soon, might not even have a year left.” Mirceo was nearing the time when he would freeze forever, the time when he’d stop breathing and his heart would cease beating. When he could no longer have sex. “The last thing I want is to be mired in this feud.”

Though Trehan had vague memories of intercourse as an enjoyable pastime, Mirceo’s entire life revolved around bedding—females, males, anyone who’d have him.

“Why should I rule others when I can’t even govern myself?”

Good point.

Stelian took a nip from his flask of blood and mead. “And I am the gatekeeper—”

“A task that already cuts into your drinking?” Trehan interrupted. Whereas he had once been friends with Viktor and a fond “uncle” to Mirceo, he’d never tolerated Stelian well.

Stelian’s parents had been the most devious of all. Just two decades ago, his widowed father had murdered Mirceo and Kosmina’s parents, then disappeared. Trehan had hunted him down and slain him. To this day, they all must suspect me of it. . . .

Stelian scowled at Trehan’s statement, but he didn’t deny his love of drink. “We all know that in a secret realm, a gatekeeper possesses far more power than a king. I can be one or the other, but not both. I choose my current position.” As the guardian of the kingdom.

Trehan could scarcely believe what he was hearing. The two of them had battled nearly to the death as many times as Trehan and Viktor had. “And your reasoning, Viktor?”

He shrugged. “I’m the last of the House of War, and frankly, that’s all I want to do. I’m given to understand this is a bad trait for a king to possess.”

There had to be more to it than that, but Trehan wouldn’t push for details in front of the others. “So what do you three plan?”

“We install Cousin Lothaire as monarch,” Mirceo said. “And then the discord will end. Just as predicted.”

At the hour of her death, Lothaire’s mother, Ivana, the rightful heiress to the throne, was said to have cursed Dacia with unrelenting strife.

Until Lothaire was made king.

I wonder if Lothaire the Enemy of Old knows exactly how accurate his trailing name is. . . .

Mirceo had seen enough strife in his short lifetime to believe in the curse. Trehan, however, had been alive long enough to know that the wily Ivana had likely just predicted more of the same underhanded maneuvering already in play. Dacia’s finite amount of political power and territory made for a situation rife with conflict.

“How much damage can Lothaire do?” Viktor said. “We don’t aggress other kingdoms, we don’t have civil unrest—other than what we royals get up to—and we’re bloody hidden! He’ll be a figurehead. And by rights, the throne is his.”

Trehan shook his head. “The last time I saw him, he was half out of his mind, searching for Dacia in the dead of winter—naked.” The vampire’s white-blond hair had been saturated with blood, his pale skin covered with it, his eyes glowing red like coals. “Oh, and he was also bellowing in Russian for someone to ‘fucking fight’ him.”

Like the rest of them, Lothaire pursued a vendetta, and he coveted the crown of the Dacians to a blistering degree. Too bad he couldn’t find his own kingdom. “He murders for sport, he feeds without restraint, and he sleep- traces uncontrollably.” Like sleep walking—only he could awaken in a different world. “The Enemy of Old is a madman.”