Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(67)

Then he’d look guilty, like he was inwardly berating himself. Which made her feel guilty for dragging him into this. Would he forever gaze at other females, wondering if that one might be the one? Would he forever imagine attempting other demonesses to find his fated mate?

She wasn’t eaten alive with jealousy like before—not after all the things she’d done with Daciano. No, she was more contemplative about Cas’s insistence that another female would be his. What if he’d been right?

What if I’ve been . . . wrong? Maybe it hadn’t been a matter of their different stations or his insecurity over his birth. Maybe it hadn’t been a matter of his sown oats.

She and Cas had never been ill at ease with each other before. At times she feared they were trying to wedge their relationship into a mold that would never fit.

Speaking of which . . . She glanced down at the mold she’d been filing, gawking at the pile of shavings. Ruined. She chucked it into the wastebasket, then squeezed her forehead with frustration.

Everything was changing, her life altered by this tournament in unforeseeable ways. And possibly for nothing.

Raum had visited today with some startling news—

“Honey, I’m home!” Salem called out, returning from his daily duties: spying. Entering the workroom, he occupied a length of chain on the backboard. “Damn, chit, maybe you want to file the shavings down too?”

She glared. “I’m preoccupied, okay?”

“And I’m holding me palms up in surrender—but it’s fake. ’Cause I never surrender. So how much longer till you finish?”

“I’ll complete fabrication before the round tonight, attaching the palm grip to the four top rings. Basically everything but the spring mechanism and the sneak blade. When I get back, I’ll do that and then etch the rings. You can send word that she’ll have it tomorrow.”

Which was an important step. Bettina straightened her arms, clutching the edge of the workbench. Because if Goürlav wins, I’ll be seeking asylum in Patroness’s kingdom.

Of course, without her medallion, Bettina couldn’t exactly escape her new husband’s clutches.

They still had no idea how to defeat the primordial, and there were only three rounds left—including tonight’s lady’s choice round. She’d secretly been hoping that this round would afford her the opportunity to take out the primordial herself.

“What’s going on out in Rune?” she asked Salem.

“Commerce,” Salem said in an impressed tone. “Lots and lots of commerce. Your backwater kingdom is now a hot tourist destination.”

As the final battles neared, fans of all stripes—sometimes literally—had arrived on the plane, filling inns and eateries. Young Loreans were camped out around the Iron Ring, playing music and building bonfires.

“And whatever Morgana’s got going on down in the ring is drawing folks by the droves.”

The sorceress had commandeered the arena for the entire day and night, hosting opening acts before tonight’s round. “Any scoop on the competitors?” Their number had been cut down to just six. Most possessed the ability to trace. Four of them were demons—including the primordial. “Maybe you have news about Goürlav?” she added hopefully.

“He’s here less and less during the day,” Salem answered. “I got nothing. Even the spies I’m spying on who are spying on other spies got nothing.”

Salem had reported that intrigues, subterfuge, and cheating were rampant.

“Do you have any idea what tonight’s round will entail?” All Bettina knew was that the remaining six would dwindle to three.

“I just shook me head. Wiv Morgana, expect the unexpected, yeah?”

“Maybe I’m supposed to decide which competitors will fight each other.”

“Or maybe you just snap your fingers and take out three.” Salem made a snapping sound. “Including Goürlav.”

“I’d been hoping the same. What about the rest of the competitors?”

“I spent the morning as the ceiling in the warlocks’ tent. Found out that the hobbies of Those Best Forgotten include long walks on the beach and sacrificing nymphs on altars. I mean, who’d want to hurt a nymph? That’s like kicking a rainbow in the nuts. And they’re doing things to that wolf . . . well, let’s just say they’re shy of humane.”

Salem had already told her how those handlers baited the poor creature before his rounds, bringing his ferocity to the fore.

“Why can’t he rein in his beast?” She knew his kind spent years learning to control the wolf within, always fearing that it’d take over.

“It’s not a rollicking good time of a story.” When she waved him on, Salem said, “The male was . . . human. The warlocks turned him to serve them. Apparently, they do that kind of thing a lot.”

A turned Lykae would have no chance of mastering the new beast inside him, not for years—if ever. Until then, you’d have a brutal killer on your hands, which was why so few were ever transformed. “So the warlocks just wind him up and let him go?”

She could imagine Salem nodding.

An added bonus? Besides being the strongest Lore species, the Lykae also happened to have unfailing fighting instincts. “Does the wolf have any idea what happened to him?”