Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(96)

Except for that odd black-haired female. She sat alone in the front row and stared at Bettina with uncanny golden eyes. Then suddenly she waved directly at her, a cheery salute.

Out of the corner of her mouth, Bettina said, “Morgana, who is that black-haired lady?”

The woman had twined her fingers together and was making heart palpitation gestures over her own chest.

“I don’t know her,” Bettina added, “but it seems she definitely knows me.”

Morgana replied, “That is the reason I will never have foresight. She’s N?x, a Valkyrie soothsayer. Has high hopes that the Sorceri will join with the Vertas side for this Accession.” Morgana snorted at that.

The impending Accession would pit all immortals against each other, and battle lines were already being drawn. Pravus against Vertas. . . .

Raum and Cas returned then, both looking irritated.

“It’s time,” Raum muttered. Pausing only for a deep draft from his tankard, he raised his hands for everyone’s attention. “Tonight is the battle you’ve all been waiting for! The semifinals, the death match without equal, an event to go down in history!”

Sporadic cheers sounded.

“First we have Goürlav, the Father of Terrors, king of hell planes untold!”

Goürlav emerged from the sanctum, stomping into the ring. Fearful whispers carried throughout the crowd. More than one family eased even farther up the stands.

The primordial had sharpened all six of his oversize horns for this event. Pointed tips jutted from his head, shoulders, and the backs of his elbows. Again, chains crisscrossed his chest, bulky metal strapped over his roughened toadlike skin. His yellow eyes were devoid of all feeling. His chin tusks looked like a dirty, fossilized beard.

This is what Morgana and Raum expect me to marry?

Raum continued, “Next we have the Prince of Shadow, hailing from lands unknown!”

Daciano stalked into the ring, his strides long and sure. His bearing was ice-cold, no hint of nerves or emotion.

A killing machine.

Cas muttered, “Never thought I would be pulling for the vampire.”

Morgana murmured, “I’d sully him so hard. . . .”

As ever, Daciano was simply dressed. Black leather pants encased powerful legs. His black long-sleeved shirt molded close over his brawny chest.

The combatants had each been allowed one weapon. Goürlav grasped a sword that looked about seven feet long, and Daciano held—

A staff?

“Where’s his sword?” Bettina’s voice scaled an octave higher as she asked, “Is that a . . . that isn’t a walking staff?”

Under his breath, Raum said, “What’s the vampire thinking?”

Cas sounded stunned. “Bringing a stick to a sword fight?”

For some reason, Morgana gave a delighted laugh. “The weapon.” In an ah-ha! tone, she cried, “The Ever-Knowing One!”

Again, whatever that meant. Daciano had said he wouldn’t strike—except for the kill strike. How exactly did he intend to kill with a staff?

Dear gods, my vampire is going to die.

The gate clanged shut behind the competitors. With an uneasy glance at the squadron of soldiers posted outside the ring, Raum signaled for the horn.

And there wasn’t a damn thing Bettina could do to help Trehan Daciano.





The horn was still sounding when Goürlav made his first strike against Trehan, tracing with unfathomable speed.

The primordial sliced his long sword through the air even before his body had fully materialized.

Trehan leapt back, twisting his torso to avoid the sword tip by inches. Can’t block it. He had to remember not to wield the staff as he would a sword. Had to remember to ignore all his training.

Before he’d had time even to regain his fighting position, that sword whistled through the air once more. Pain seared his chest. Blood dripped from a shallow gash.

Fuck, this creature is fast. Goürlav had been sandbagging in other rounds. The pre-demon’s body might be old, but it was deadly honed.

And Trehan couldn’t fight back. I only get one shot at this, one shot with this weapon. He began half-tracing, making himself like air; at once, Goürlav ceased his advances, conserving all energy.

We’ll be weeks like this. Trehan needed to make the demon complacent. Which means I’ll be taking a beating. He clenched his jaw and materialized fully.

Goürlav charged once more, his sword nearly catching the staff before Trehan yanked it behind him. Goürlav’s yellow eyes flickered with interest. Sensing that Trehan was protecting the staff?

Another charge.

Gods damn it! Now the demon was targeting it. Have to defend myself—while defending it. Or I’ll never leave this ring alive.

Goürlav feinted with his sword. Trehan dodged—just as the demon launched his anvil fist right at Trehan’s chest, connecting. His sternum fractured as his body hurtled through the air.

Trace! Too disoriented. Up? No, down! Plummeting. Never had he taken such a hit.

His back crashed into the side of the cage; a line of iron spikes gored holes into the back of his neck and torso before his body recoiled from the impact. Launched into the air once more, he poured blood from a pierced lung.

The second landing was like a punch from the earth. All breath left his good lung. Black dots swarmed in his vision. Rouse yourself!