Shadow's Claim

Morgana waved to the guards at the sanctum gate. “Bring forth the competitors.” The six remaining males filed out to stand in a line below the grandstand—Goürlav, the Lykae, the remaining fire demon, the last stone demon, Caspion, and Daciano.

Just looking at the vampire brought on a pang of feeling. Which meant . . .

I have more than just Cas to worry about tonight.

For once Daciano wasn’t gazing at her but staring out into the misty night, clearly preoccupied. What had happened to him today? What turmoil had Salem witnessed?

“Six of you will enter. Three will die,” Morgana told them. “Now, the rules of this round are simple. You have ten minutes to return here with an offering for Princess Bettina. She will rate them from favorite to least. The trio whose gifts rank lowest will lose their heads.”

Bettina’s jaw slackened. It was one thing to see males battling it out to the death—having to decide exactly who would perish was another thing altogether. She bit out to Raum, “You knew about this?”

He patted her hand, looking anywhere but at her face. “Over before you know it, m’girl.”

Tonight Morgana had made her the judge and jury. For three beings. Bettina would all but execute them herself.

As Bettina bristled beside Raum, Morgana continued, “Whoever wins tonight will go directly to the final round, awaiting the victor of tomorrow night’s semifinal match.”

Cas caught Bettina’s eye, mouthing, Just made the finals. Of course he was jovial; he knew he was safe. He could bring her dirt, and she’d adore it.

“The runner-up,” Morgana said, “will receive a tour of Rune tonight, guided by Princess Bettina herself.”

Tour? Tour!!!

“You will bring your offerings to the sanctum, then return here,” Morgana said.

Daciano’s face was as impassive as ever, but his eyes were black. Bettina sensed that this challenge had taken him off guard.

“Beginning now.” The great horn punctuated Morgana’s words.

Once the contestants had hastened, traced, or were wrangled away, Morgana turned to Bettina. “Let’s see how well your ‘suitors’ know you. It takes so little to make a sorceress happy. All we need is gold, wine, gold, bold color, merriment, gold, power—”

“I’ll pick Goürlav’s as last,” Bettina informed her godmother, “and be done with him.”

“Alas, you must answer honestly.” Morgana sipped from her goblet. “Just as the terms of the contract will compel those entrants to return—despite their prospects—you’ll be compelled to tell the truth.”

Their prospects? They were returning to a fifty-fifty chance of death. Dread suffused her.

Though Cas was completely safe, what if Daciano offered her something she detested?

“And besides,” Morgana said, “you won’t be privy to which contestant offered which gift.”

“What?”

Chapter 27

Trehan’s options were few.

He’d already procured his “gift” for Bettina, but it was the type that should be given with explanation and tact. Otherwise, she might react badly to it.

Screams, fainting, retching—all possible.

He knew his Bride could be . . . skittish at times. However, his offering was something she’d dreamed of, and her guardians would be pleased.

All beings in the Lore would be put on notice.

If Trehan wanted to signal to Raum and Morgana that he was a male who should possess their ward, this was a solid move.

But thinking of her fears made him doubt. Ever cold, ever logical Trehan was unable to make a decision.

Is this a rational play?

Or do I merely want to demonstrate what I alone can give to her? Demonstrate it to the entire realm?

Was it ego—or daring?

Two minutes left. He might have the opportunity to prepare her; he’d have to chance that.

Exhaling a breath, he traced back to the sanctum, the burlap bag slung over his shoulder. Unable to spy out what the others’ gifts were, he grudgingly handed his bag to attendants, then returned to the ring.

Each contestant looked pleased about his gift, except for the dirt-coated Lykae; he just appeared rabid and half-drugged.

Morgana raised her hands over the six, commanding, “Kneel.”

None of them did. Trehan even shared a look with Goürlav: the fuck? Trehan Daciano knelt before no one—

Suddenly an inconceivable pressure hit him, as if anvil blows had landed atop both his shoulders. His knees slammed against the ground, his legs nearly buckling under the force. All of the contestants had been shoved down, the fire demon suffering a dislocated shoulder. The ground shook when Goürlav was put to his knees.

The gold decorating Morgana’s body vibrated, heated air diffusing around her. Trehan perceived her power surrounding them. Swift, fierce . . . dark. “Perhaps next time you’ll obey promptly when a Queen orders you. Obedience—is—not—optional.”

Each of the contestants had his arms jerked behind his back, his wrists fettered by her sorcery. Like a shot, six swords appeared, floating through the air to position themselves before the six males.

One sword directly against each competitor’s throat.

If Trehan so much as swallowed, he’d slice himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he spied a cadre of warriors standing at the ready to fight any Child Terrors, should Goürlav’s blood spill.

Everything became clear.

Instantly upon Bettina’s decision, three heads would topple.

* * *

By the time the six had returned, Bettina had been close to hyperventilating. It hadn’t helped that Daciano looked troubled about this round, his brows drawn.

In the past, he’d been so confident. Now he seemed to be trying to communicate something to her.

Goürlav was enraged, his yellow eyes slitted, spittle dribbling from a rotted fang down to his fossilized beard. Caspion looked cocky. The poor Lykae squirmed against Morgana’s hold, chuffing with confusion.

Had his warlock handlers chosen well, or would the former human die for their mistake?

The fire and stone demons appeared stoic, but their horns were twisting with their panic.

This entire situation was killing her. Six swords at six throats? No muss, no fuss, no disputing the verdict.

This would all be over before she knew it.

Cas chanced a wink at her. Whatever he’d given her would likely be recognizable as his offering.

Thank gods for that.

But what if Daciano had stumbled with his choice? What if her choice made that sword slice through his neck—the neck she’d licked and nuzzled her face against as he’d pleasured her?

Never again to see his devilish eyes go black with emotion . . . ?

Her own eyes started to water behind her mask. Why had this decision fallen to her?

Morgana called, “And now, the gifts!”

More guards conveyed the procession of tributes toward the grandstand. One held a single envelope, one a velvety-smooth jewelry case, and another led in two stallions of a rare silver color, an exquisitely matched pair. Next came a bulging wagon full of gold. So much of it that even she raised her brows. Behind that was a rare phoenix, its feathers so brilliant she nearly had to shield her eyes.

Last: a bulky burlap sack?