Shadow's Claim

steps.

“Turn around, vampire!” Why keep his back to his foe?

Whatever Daciano saw in her expression eased the grim chill in his own; his shoulders went back.

“Turn—around!” she cried even more frantically. Goürlav was nearly upon him!

Still the vampire stared at her. She whispered, “Face him. Ah, gods, please.”

Mere feet away.

At the last moment, Daciano traced out of Goürlav’s way. The primordial went lurching forward. Behind him, a blaze erupted, like . . . like dawn.

As Goürlav whirled around, shielding his eyes against the sudden burst of light, Bettina’s jaw slackened.

The vampire was wielding the scythe of the Vrekeners, the one with a mystical blade made of flames.

The one that had been poised over Bettina three months ago.

Only now the black fire was replaced by flames that burned hotter and brighter than she could ever have imagined, like the surface of the sun.

“My gods,” Morgana murmured. “Do you know what that is?”

One of the most legendary weapons in the Lore, one of only four rumored to exist.

Bettina hadn’t recognized the plain black staff—the sole time she’d beheld that scythe, her eyes had been fixed on the glowing black blade.

Daciano traced into a lunge, launching himself at Goürlav, that scythe flaming above the vampire’s head in a mind-boggling tableau.

Goürlav seemed blinded, confused. Too late, he tried to teleport. Daciano had already swung.

The scythe sliced through one protective shoulder horn, then the primordial’s meaty neck, then another horn. Cutting like a laser.

The creature’s head bounced, its mouth still moving. Its body crashed to the ground like a felled moonraker tree. Spectators froze, dread sweeping over them.

Cas clutched her arm, readying to trace her to safety. At once, Raum teleported to join the squadron of demon guards. Unsheathing his sword, he ordered them to ready their own.

Waiting . . . waiting . . .

The primordial ceded death so slowly. The decapitated body twitched and writhed. Its arms flailed as if to search for its head.

Yet not a drop of blood spilled. The unnatural flame had seared Goürlav’s pebbly skin.

Cauterized? No blood? Then Daciano would . . . live?

He’ll live! This was finished! The audience must’ve realized this just as Bettina did; they went wild. Streamers coasted down from the stands. The soldiers sagged with relief, then got to work securing the body; Raum bear-hugged anyone unlucky enough to be close by.

And the victor?

Daciano stood covered in his own blood, holding that unfathomable weapon. It cascaded light down over him, painting him like an anointed warrior. His bared chest heaved with bravely earned wounds. He seemed to have forgotten them. His sweat-slickened skin gleamed, corded muscles rippling.

Not only had he taken the Vrekeners’ heads, he’d taken one of their sources of power.

And he’d used it to defeat a monster.

Morgana breathed, “I want one of him all for myself!”

Trehan Daciano was . . . magnificent.

The crowd of mighty Deathly Ones started chanting, “Prince of Shadow.” And for a few wonderful moments, she was high from the victory, from pride in her vampire, from the roars of her people.

She narrowed her eyes to the sky. I dare the Vrekeners to attack.

Cas released Bettina’s arm, drawing her mind back to him.

“It was a good fight,” he bit out. “And a clever move. No wonder the people chant his name now.”

How difficult that must be for Cas to say. His childhood had been miserable among the Deathly Ones, yet over the course of the last week, they’d begun to sing his praises.

But the kingdom was fickle. Much of the attention he’d been enjoying had shifted to the vampire, his own people clamoring for Daciano.

She wanted Cas to have acclaim as well. She wanted him to have demonesses worshipping him and throwing garters and squeezing his muscles—

Her breath left her in a rush. With that thought, she knew the truth and accepted it: her feelings for Cas weren’t as she’d supposed them. . . .

Cheers reverberated even louder when Daciano folded the fire back into the staff, dousing it, controlling the weapon of an enemy with absolute surety.

Morgana murmured, “Now that is an accessory I must acquire.”

Bettina quickly asked, “Do you think you could use it to get my sorcery back?”

“If only it were so simple, freakling. It’s merely a channeling device, a conduit, to upload powers to their storage vault. But still, for a Sorceri to possess a scythe of the Vrekeners? How it would gall them! How it would rally us!”

Instead of acknowledging all the crowd’s praise, Daciano kept his eyes on the prize, staring up at Bettina with that dark, arresting gaze.

At the end of each match in the past, his expression had said: I’m fighting for you. Soon you’ll be mine.

Now his expression said: I’m coming for you. You are mine.

Ah, gods, he looked fierce. She swallowed. And not a little scary.

Morgana registered the vampire’s expression and advised, “Be wary, freakling. As I said before, Lorean males become very brutish after fighting over a woman. They need to thrust at things. To rut, if you will. They lose their higher faculties.”

“Morgana!” she cried, trying to wrap her mind around everything that had happened. It fully sank in that Daciano lived. Which meant that it fully sank in that he would fight Cas. She gazed up at him, recognizing him for what he was: her guide, her lifeline, her mentor.

Her best friend. “I don’t know what to say, Cas.”

“Enjoy tonight with the vampire, Bettina,” he grated. “It’s his last.” Cas traced away.

The certainty in his words gave her chills. A week ago his statement would have delighted her. Now . . . ?

She couldn’t lose either of them.

Morgana grabbed her hand. “Off we go. You must get ready.”

“For what?”

“The Prince of Shadow will be coming for you,” she said, ushering Bettina away from the ring, Inferi trailing. “To stake his claim.”

“Morgana, please, I’m in no mood for this.”

“This was the battle,” she insisted. “Killing Caspion tomorrow is just a formality.”

“Stop talking like that!” The male she was falling for had lived, and the gut-wrenching fear she’d felt for him had momentarily dissolved. But on the heels of her relief, dread rebounded.

“Your demon is simply too young, with too few kills under his belt. He doesn’t stand a chance against that vampire.” As Morgana whisked her back to the castle, she said, “The Prince of Shadow is no longer a prince, dear. He’s as good as king of this realm.”

Chapter 38