Shadow's Claim

The air was heavy with magic; it pricked at Bettina’s skin. Her hair tossed in the wind. “I’m ready!” She inhaled deeply—

Morgana’s hand suddenly went dark. The wind died, the sorcery dissipated. “You know, I just remembered how you doubted me. It seems this tournament has been wonderful for you. But you complained incessantly about the minor details, like the countless deaths. Bitch, bitch, bitch—”

“Morgana!”

“Who’s your favorite godmother? Who’s the best sorceress in the entire Lore? Say it.”

With a roll of her eyes, Bettina muttered, “Morgana’s the best sorceress in the entire Lore.”

Mollified, her godmother said, “Then enjoy.” She shoved her palm against Bettina’s forehead. Fire seemed to leap from the sorceress’s hand. The wind howled once more.

Bettina’s body seized, her back arching, her limbs twisting. But Morgana held her aloft, pouring sorcery into her, as if into an empty vessel.

“Almost done, freakling. Almost . . .”

Levitating. Heat rushing. Bettina’s muscles knotted until she thought they would snap—

“There!” Morgana finished, releasing her at last.

Gasping breaths, Bettina clutched her godmother’s shoulder for balance. Is it back? Am I whole?

Salem laughed. “That was bloody brilliant, ladies! And oddly arousing. If I had a body, I’d be cock-up right now.”

Amber light filled Bettina’s palms. The excruciating emptiness she’d suffered had disappeared. Happiness bloomed, manifesting itself in swirls of sorcery all around her. “Oh, my gold. It’s . . . back.” She staggered before she found her footing.

Perhaps I have finally found my footing?

“Consider that a wedding gift.” Morgana smoothed her hair. “Now. What shall you wear for your nuptials tonight?”

* * *

Though hours had passed since Morgana had left, and the day’s storm had long abated, the vampire still hadn’t appeared.

Even after her shocking turn of fortunes, Bettina grew apprehensive. No, think of something else. Like your wedding!

Tonight, after the final round, she would return here and change, then Raum would escort her to court.

She gazed over the bridal ensemble laid out across her bed. It had been Eleara’s. The skirt consisted of tulle layers with an ivory silk overlay and a train. Gloves cut to match. The top was an elegant bustier, forged of—what else?—white gold.

Morgana had used her sorcery to update a couple of touches and freshen the fabrics. Then she’d tossed a glamour over her own face to disguise her misting eyes. The afternoon had been wonderful; even Morgana had said, “I think we just bonded. Is this bonding?”

So why was Bettina laden with this apprehension? Why hadn’t Daciano checked in? What if his plan was being derailed right at this moment? What if Cas wasn’t safe?

At the very least, she needed to be privy to the vampire’s plan—so she could take the news to Raum, the de facto referee.

Decided, she donned her cloak, readying to set out for Daciano’s tent. On her way out, she passed Salem, reading mags.

“Oi! You need an escort?” he asked.

“I’m okay,” she said. I think. We’ll see.

“I’m supposing you will be, now that you’re the Queen of Hearts again.”

She frowned. Cas assumed she was braver because the Vrekeners had perished. Salem thought she’d been emboldened by her power.

Sure, these things hadn’t hurt matters. But Cas and Salem didn’t understand—even without those developments, Bettina still would’ve made this walk.

After the last two nights with the vampire, something had shifted with her thinking. Not simply because a strong, sexy vampire had told her greatness resides in you—but because she’d begun to see that he might just have a point. . . .

“I’ll be back soon,” she told Salem.

Out on the street, the buildings didn’t loom so large. Maybe the more she pushed herself, the easier it would be?

The easier for this mouse to twitch her tail at the sky.

When she reached Daciano’s tent, she ducked under the flaps, careful not to let even the setting sunlight in. She found him alone, looking as if he’d just stopped himself midsentence.

She peered around. “They were just here, weren’t they? Your cousins?”

“Yes. They congratulated me on my success, on winning you and this realm’s crown.” His appearance startled her.

Whereas she was refreshed and invigorated, he looked distracted and weary, so different from how he’d been just hours before. Now his face was pale and dark circles marred the skin under his eyes. He looked like he’d lost weight over the day, his tailored clothing hanging looser on his frame. And why not? Much of his blood stained the clay ground of the Iron Ring. If he wasn’t drinking to replenish it . . .

“They also brought word of Lothaire. It seems he has found the way to make his Bride immortal. They are bonded.”

“That’s amazing.”

“It’s been a long time coming. We have voted to install them as regents. Or at least, my cousins have.”

She went to him, laying her hands on his chest. “That must be bittersweet for you.”

“There is much to . . . take in. Over a span of mere days, I’ve been blooded, surrendered one kingdom to become king of another, and forsaken the Realm of Blood and Mist for Abaddon, the land of my Bride.”

I will make you happy here, vampire. You won’t regret it. “When was the last time you slept through a day?” A brutal tension seemed to be grinding inside him. This close she could perceive it.

“Weeks.” His lips curled, but the smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve had much to do with the tournament and with my last duties to Dacia. In any case, I’ll sleep once I’ve made you my wife. We won’t leave our bed for days.”

Though that sounded heavenly, she still worried about his health. “You aren’t drinking either?”

His gaze strayed to her pulse again. The idea of his weakness and thirst brought on a pang of worry.

Maybe I should have let him bite me. He’d made everything else wonderful for her; why should that prove any different? Tonight, she would bare her neck for him.

For now, she went to his sideboard and poured a goblet of blood from a crystal carafe. In the past, she might have found it distasteful, but now it was literally her vampire’s lifeblood. “Here, Trehan. Drink.”

He groused—like a typical male—but he did take the glass, downing it with a grimace. “All other blood is foul after I’ve tasted yours.” Then he frowned. “Why are you here? Is something wrong?”

Maybe she could tell him about her power later. He seemed to have a little too much on his mind just now. “I need to know more about your plan for tonight.”

“Why?”

“For one, it involves me. And I don’t walk blindly into situations like this anymore.”

He tilted his head appraisingly. “Very well.” He traced to the heavy contract scroll, hefting it in one hand. “I read every minuscule handwritten word of text in this, every rule.”

“But isn’t it written in old Demonish?”

“Correct. Which proved time-consuming to translate—another reason I’m fatigued.” He shrugged. “Though the language is Demonish, the rules are based on ancient Sorceri law, from a time when your kind valued gallantry. There’s a mercy clause.”

“What does that mean?”

“If one competitor is facing certain death, the prize female can bestow a favor upon him, removing him from