Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(66)

“We figured as much,” Viktor said. “You must lead the way, then!”

Trehan had only to imagine Lothaire’s face, and it would direct him to the Enemy of Old. Then he could trace his cousins to the vampire’s location.

Trehan turned to Stelian. “You’re actually in agreement with this?” His hulking cousin revered Dacia and loathed change.

“It’s rational to explore the possibility, to determine if Lothaire’s truly improving.” Stelian took another drink. “We require little of your time. Your days are free.”

No, they really weren’t. Damn it. And still my duty to Dacia calls me.

Though Trehan’s memories of Lothaire gave him pause, the idea of restoring a rightful king to his throne appealed to his sense of order. Trehan might be breaking other rules now, but the rules of succession for the Dacian crown should be inviolable.

Yes, he was warming to this idea.

Viktor said, “You should know, however, that there might be a catch with his Bride.”

“Isn’t there always?” Trehan said. “Can’t wait to hear it—but first, I’ve a catch of my own. . . .”





For the last several days, Bettina had been particularly unmotivated to work.

The first couple of nights after her close encounter with Daciano on the grandstand, she’d wandered her rooms after the evening’s battles, aimlessly pacing, her appetite gone. For endless hours, she’d fretted over Cas in the ring—and replayed her three interludes with Daciano.

But then, fearing Patroness’s displeasure, the deadline looming, she’d powered through and now had much to show for her efforts.

She’d sketched diagrams of every moving part and cut each individual mold, getting closer to the fabrication stage. So what materials will I use?

She thought of her great and powerful Patroness, with all her fiery red hair. Rose gold. Of course.

Picking up a diamond file, she began to smooth the edges of the last mold. With a project this intricate and complex, the parts had to be exact, with machinelike precision.

She could have requested an extension on this deadline, but it helped to keep her mind occupied as the tournament dragged on.

Night after night, she’d flinched with each hit Cas took and sagged with each bout he won; she’d fretted as Goürlav handily advanced, without so much as a single injury.

Night after night, she’d wondered why the vampire had made no move to speak to her since he’d pleasured her in the mist.

He had appeared, killed quietly and efficiently, then vanished.

In his bout against the remaining Ajatar, he’d walked through flames, his outline illuminated—no panic, just pure will as he’d made his kill, collecting one head, then the other.

Against the Volar demon, he’d demonstrated just as little emotion. With his face expressionless and his eyes that impassive green, Daciano had winged the creature, then taken its head effortlessly.

Many of the Abaddonae were speculating that he was a turned human, a Forbearer. Some of them believed he must be the oldest Forbearer ever turned, considering his strength and his control with tracing.

Most had deemed him chillingly cold.

If she had a gold piece for every time Cas had muttered, “Bastard’s got ice in his veins” . . .

But Bettina thrilled to watch him fight. As someone interested in mechanical precision, she could appreciate his daring but methodical style.

A killing machine.

Yet she’d also seen him as no one else had—his grim face alight with pride, his eyes dancing. . . .

Even if she could deny that she’d missed him, she couldn’t deny that her body hungered for more of what he’d given her.

Her only exchanges with him? After each of his matches, he’d given her a bow in acknowledgment, then he’d leveled that penetrating gaze on her.

Recalling how his irises changed as he beheld her—forest green flooding black—made her shiver even now.

She could imagine his look said: I’m fighting for you. Soon you’ll be mine.

It made her feel like the most desirable woman in the world.

Others had started to remark on the way he looked at her, nicknaming him the Prince of Obsessions. Bettina Abaddon—an object of obsession?

She couldn’t quite buy it either.

Besides, if he was so obsessed, then why had he made no move to contact her? Salem had mentioned that he was never in his tent during the day. Where would the vampire go if barred from Dacia?

She’d noticed that his clothing was often in disarray, as if he’d traced into the ring directly from another fight. He would have mud splashed across his pants or a ripped shirttail. Once he’d had snow on his boots and a spray of crimson on his sleeve.

What? Did he have a part-time job or something?

Maybe he’d simply tired of the chase. She replayed his parting words continually. Lest you lose a male who’ll desire only you . . .

The idea of losing him brought on a wave of sadness. Which made no sense; if she loved one male, how could she feel things for another?

Admittedly, things were strained between her and Cas. The more he tried to be on his best boyfriendly behavior, the more distance seemed to yawn between them.

Whenever he remained at an endless banquet with her—instead of running off with his rowdy friends—he could be the picture of attentiveness. Until he inevitably slipped up with a longing gaze at the exit, or a buxom serving wench distracted his attention.