Shadow's Claim (Immortals After Dark #13)(97)

Wait. Hands empty? Where was the staff?

The demon seized his body with two hands, sinking its claws into Trehan’s skin. Trehan thrashed but couldn’t get free; the primordial’s grip made it impossible to trace. In one practiced movement, Goürlav dropped to a knee, raised the other, and lifted Trehan over his head.

To crack my spine. Trehan gritted his teeth just as the demon hurled his body, back first, down across that raised knee.

Broken? Not yet. Can’t get free; can’t trace.

Staff . . . where’s the f*cking—

Goürlav hefted him up and heaved him down again.

Snap. Trehan perceived something giving way inside his body. Not my spine? He remained conscious and able to move. Fight on! Pummeling his fists into Goürlav’s bony flanks, he searched for the staff.

Have to get free! How? How? The primordial had no weakness to exploit. Made for war. No handholds, doesn’t feel my punches—

Goürlav raked his elbow horn across Trehan’s torso, ravaging the skin and muscle beneath it. Now he’s playing with me.

With his head forced back like this, Trehan was utterly vulnerable. But he spied something from this angle he’d never seen before. Can it be . . . ? He squinted to clear the dots clouding his sight.

There. A pulse point in Goürlav’s neck.

Normally it was concealed by his bony beard. A visible pulse meant weakness.

Using all the strength he could muster, Trehan clenched his fist—and launched it directly at the area; with a wet bellow, Goürlav clamped his neck and reared back.

Freed of Goürlav’s hold, Trehan scrambled away, lumbering to his feet. He scanned the arena. The staff . . . must get to it!

Everything happened so fast. He jerked his head around, spied Bettina’s wan face and frantic eyes, just before he saw a line of stark black against the red clay ground.

There, just in front of the grandstand!

But the primordial followed his gaze. Goürlav slitted those yellow eyes at Trehan, then tensed to trace for the staff. . . .



“I can’t watch any more of this!” Bettina cried. The vampire had been injured in several different places, scarcely able to stand.

“Brace yourself.” Morgana pinched her arm, hard. “It isn’t over.”

When Daciano had taken a blow that sent him careening across the ring, Bettina had nearly lost the contents of her stomach. Tears had welled when Goürlav had severed the skin on Daciano’s chest.

The vampire’s shirt had been torn away, revealing that gaping wound, a length of bloody lacerations just beneath his pec muscles. The more blood he lost, the less control he would have with teleporting. For some reason, he looked hell-bent on getting back to his staff, the one that she’d watched tumble end over end, bouncing ever farther away from him.

Goürlav traced for it. Somehow the vampire beat him there. In a stunning show of strength, Daciano shoved his fists straight out, connecting with Goürlav’s plated chest.

Now the primordial went flying!

Everyone gaped at the power left in Daciano’s battered body, at the coldness with which he still fought.

But Goürlav was back on his feet too soon. The vampire charged toward his opponent, gaining speed. With a roar, Goürlav accepted the challenge and began tearing across the ring, quaking the ground with each footfall.

Two locomotives on the same track.

Daciano barreled into the primordial, shoulder first, as if he were busting down a door. The bone-rattling impact sent Goürlav sprawling to his back, the momentum grinding the being’s body across the ground in a wake of spraying clay.

Gasps sounded all around the ring. Had the primordial’s thick skin been pierced? All waited with bated breath for Child Terrors. Waiting . . .

None spawned.

Freed of his opponent, Daciano turned toward the staff. Lips thinned, he traced to it, gushing blood anew when he bent to seize it from the ground. As he straightened, he met Bettina’s gaze.

Behind him, Goürlav scrambled up and ran at Daciano once more, rattling the entire ring with his steps.

“Turn around, vampire!” Why keep his back to his foe?

Whatever Daciano saw in her expression eased the grim chill in his own; his shoulders went back.

“Turn—around!” she cried even more frantically. Goürlav was nearly upon him!

Still the vampire stared at her. She whispered, “Face him. Ah, gods, please.”

Mere feet away.

At the last moment, Daciano traced out of Goürlav’s way. The primordial went lurching forward. Behind him, a blaze erupted, like . . . like dawn.

As Goürlav whirled around, shielding his eyes against the sudden burst of light, Bettina’s jaw slackened.

The vampire was wielding the scythe of the Vrekeners, the one with a mystical blade made of flames.

The one that had been poised over Bettina three months ago.

Only now the black fire was replaced by flames that burned hotter and brighter than she could ever have imagined, like the surface of the sun.

“My gods,” Morgana murmured. “Do you know what that is?”

One of the most legendary weapons in the Lore, one of only four rumored to exist.

Bettina hadn’t recognized the plain black staff—the sole time she’d beheld that scythe, her eyes had been fixed on the glowing black blade.