Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(74)

The contents of that bag had shocked her, then dredged up horrors she’d desperately tried to bury.

She knew it was Daciano’s offering to her. He was the only one who could’ve accomplished this feat.

Just as Bettina had feared, he’d read her memories. He’d seen her most private moments like a voyeur in her mind.

Morgana turned to her with a slow grin spreading across her face. “Are they who I think they are?”

Bettina started to speak, had to cough before she could utter: “Vrekeners.”

Somehow the vampire had traveled to the air territories and wrought vengeance.

Their grimaces of pain in the torchlight were so very reminiscent of their masks of rage, lit by a pale yellow moon. The scent of crushed poppies . . .

She furtively pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, fearing she’d throw up. Judging from the disfiguring marks across their faces, they’d died bloody. Just as Daciano had promised.

She gazed over at him. His mien was as stoic as ever, but deep down he had to fear he’d made a mistake.

With sheer glee, Morgana announced to all, “And lastly, we have the most wanted foes of Abaddon, executed and delivered.”

Surprised murmurs sounded throughout the stands, so few understanding the meaning of those trophies.

Raum hoisted his tankard above his head, not bothering to disguise his delight. The pressure to find her attackers had just been lifted.

Bettina glanced at Cas. He looked infuriated that Daciano had done what he’d been unable to.

Back to the vampire. Finally she discerned a hint of emotion on his face, his eyes flickering.

She thought that he was . . . sorry—not about the ultimate outcome of this round, but that he’d upset her. Why present them like this, vampire? Yes, she’d wanted them dead. But why like this?

“Time for the results!” Morgana said.

Bettina dutifully rose, pressing her hands against the table to steady herself.

“Which three gifts do you like least? Princess?” Morgana prompted more forcefully.

In a deadened tone, she answered, “The horses.”

The fire demon directly beside Daciano cried, “Wait—”

But Morgana had already waved her hand to wield the mystical sword. His head bounced to the ground. “And next?” she asked in a breezy tone.

Bettina grew even more nauseated.

When the Lykae saw the first head topple, he began grappling against Morgana’s hold with all the brutal force in his body, his ice-blue eyes wide. Whimpers broke from his chest.

“Princess?”

Did the Lykae believe they were all being summarily executed? Did he understand anything that was happening?

Does he believe he’s . . . next?

“Princess! Which gift?” Morgana’s expression turned sinister. Under her breath, she said, “Each second you dally, the wolf’s ungodsly strength tests my powers. Take care that I don’t accidentally swing for Caspion’s head.”

Bettina gave a wary nod. Just as she murmured, “The jewels,” she spied a flicker of clarity in the Lykae’s eyes. The ice-blue color faded as his gaze darted around him with . . . comprehension.

The former human had surfaced from the wolf’s grip—to find himself bound in an iron cage, surrounded by blood-thirsty demons. A frantic bellow erupted from his chest.

Have I just killed him? Were the jewels from the Warlocks? Bettina twisted toward the sorceress. “Please, Morgana—”

Morgana had already waved her hand; the Lykae yelled one word: “Brother!”

His call still echoed, even after his head rested next to his limp body.

Bettina swayed, her jaw slackening. But Morgana simply tossed a temporary glamour over her, erasing any expression.

Inside, she was sick—about this tournament, about her existence, about her very world. How long can I be powerless like this?

How long till she became as hard-bitten as Morgana hoped—or as weak as Raum expected?



Trehan swallowed, feeling cold steel against his throat, yet unable to trace away, unable to fight.

Such a gamble. Such a fool. You gave her f*cking heads, Trehan?

“Lastly, Princess?”

The crowd was silent as a grave.

Bettina gazed at Trehan, as if to gather strength for her last pronouncement.

He stared back, taking her face into memory—

“The . . . phoenix.”

The stone demon roared, “No, you can’t!”

With a shrug, Morgana waved her hand once more. His muscles bulged, hardening like stone, but the sorceress’s power was too great. Another demon down.

Trehan just kept himself from sagging against the sword in relief. He, Caspion, and Goürlav would survive the night.

“And now for the winner! Which gift do you like best?”

Wagon of gold, concert tickets—or a seemingly impossible revenge?

Yet again, he and Caspion would be in competition. Now that Trehan hadn’t been decapitated, his confidence over his offering rose. She’ll choose mine. Anyone could give her tickets or riches. But not vengeance.

“I like . . . the tickets best.”

“Caspion the Tracker advances to the final round!” Morgana called with fanfare, but no real excitement.

Well-played, demon. The crowd roared, feet stomping the stands. Raum whistled shrilly, whaling his massive hands in applause.