Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(58)

Bettina wasn’t even surprised when that electric thrill coursed through her body. So she pointedly ignored him, hiding her face behind the rim of her oversize goblet.

As soon as the gate clanged shut, the troll raised his club in the vampire’s direction, spitting the words: “I’m going to gut you and feed on your entrails! I’ll take your head and suck on it like a sweet!”

The horn sounded. At once, the troll swung; Daciano feinted left and dodged the blow.

“And then I’ll slurp from your gullet!”

Daciano moved right and struck so fast, she couldn’t see the flash of his sword.

Blood began to seep around the troll’s bristly neck like a crimson scarf. The creature’s expression was one of shock as its body and its head crashed to the ground with all the grace of a demolished building.

The crowd went silent. She saw others around her blinking, as if they hadn’t seen the fight correctly. Daciano had dispatched his opponent with one blow, and not a drop of blood on his immaculate clothing.

After a stunned moment, the Sorceri cheered.

Again, the vampire gave Bettina a formal bow, acknowledging the prize.

She scowled. She didn’t like the effect he had on her, didn’t like how out-of-control her body felt, while he appeared completely self-possessed.

He wiped his sword on the troll’s toga, sheathed it, then traced to Bettina. When he took the seat beside her, Sorceri on the grandstand cheered again. It seemed to take him a moment to realize their fanfare was for him.

The muscles in his neck tensed, his unease noticeable.

The secret assassin who’d been naught but death was quickly becoming a celebrity. How odd that must be for him. Over his shoulder, Bettina spied other Sorceri females gazing at him with blatant attraction.

Which irritated her. For no reason!

He took her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to the palm, making her gasp. At her ear, he murmured, “You worked off a boon over the day. Good girl.”

Was it that obvious? She felt her cheeks go hot. Delicately clearing her throat, she asked, “A vampire taking a seat at a banquet? What exactly do you intend to eat?”

His smoldering gaze landed on her neck. Had he just run his tongue over one fang?

She almost shivered. “Don’t even think about taking my blood again. I’m still pissed at you.”

In truth, she couldn’t muster much anger over that. He had tried to warn her, and it wasn’t like he’d pierced her neck.

Since last night, her outrage over his taking had cooled to . . . curiosity? Maybe even titillation? Whenever she recalled his reaction to her taste, she experienced a forbidden thrill. “Dulcea!” he’d groaned. Sweet.

If he did harvest her memories, then the damage was already done. She told herself yet again, Don’t cry over spilled blood.

Or maybe she was just drunk.

“I apologize, Bettina. I have little control with you.”

Me, Bettina the Freakling, making a centuries-old vampire lose control. She sighed. Delicious.

“As for this banquet, I can eat,” he said. “And drink wine.” He took her glass and drank a healthy swallow before handing it back. Proprietary. Perception is reality. “I’ll do both if it makes you feel more comfortable.”

Daciano was all charm again this eve, looking handsome and noble. She was immune. She was. Damn it, she was starting fresh with Cas. From this minute on.

She would not let this vampire plant any more doubt. Because today, when she’d tried to picture Caspion straight out of the bath, she’d seen nothing but deep green eyes, black hair, and a chiseled body wracked with vampiric lust.

Daciano could make her doubt her own heart, if she let him! “Comfortable, vampire? Trying to close the gap on all our many differences?”

“Yes.”

Flustered, she glanced at the program for the night. The next fight was between two fire demons. She didn’t care either way who won that meet. In fact, the only rounds she cared about were Cas’s, the vampire’s, Goürlav’s, and, weirdly—the Lykae’s.

She didn’t understand why the wolf couldn’t restrain the beast inside him. All the Lykae males she’d met before had been brimming with sensual charm, hot Scotsmen with wicked grins and a repertoire of clever innuendo.

But this creature was brimming with pain and confusion. Earlier when it’d won its match against a rage demon, it had begun to feed on the demon’s corpse. Cloaked warlocks had drugged the Lykae and hauled it away. Its handlers. Disgusting.

And there was nothing she could do about it. The powerless queen. In more than one regard.

When she waved for a refill, Daciano frowned. “Do you always drink so much?”

“No, but if it bothers you, I’ll drink much more often.” She thanked the attendant.

“I can use it to my advantage.”

At the rim of her goblet, she said, “Oh, and how’s that?”

“You’re soon to see. Now, tell me, what creation have you this eve?” he asked, lifting her hand, examining the sizable ring on her forefinger.

Normally she took every opportunity to talk about her lethal luxe, even as people’s eyes glazed over, but her tone was put out as she explained, “Standard-issue toxin delivery.” She’d created a flip-top reservoir on the bottom of the band.

Most Sorceri owned at least one poison ring. Her kind were talented toxinians—who didn’t hesitate to practice their craft. She demonstrated the function for Daciano, turning her palm up and flipping the lid on the full powder well.