Shadow's Claim

Whereas Morgana had scarcely cleared the doorway's width with her headdress, Raum barely cleared its seven-foot height. Even the vampire hadn't been quite so tall.

Stop thinking about him!

"How's m'girl?" Raum gave her a wink. "I know what you're thinking. Raum is handsome as the devil, eh?"

Bettina smiled fondly at him. Though her father had been kind, some part of him had always seemed . . . distant. Raum had doted on her, making up the lack. But he wasn't perfect; he'd been raised in a feudal age, and he treated Bettina like a damsel-who was continually in distress. He saw her as a fragile doll among the demons, a rare hothouse flower.

Still, he'd been flexible in some regards-right up until she'd been attacked.

After directing an expected scowl at Morgana, Raum extended his arm to Bettina. "You look lovely. Are you ready to descend?" With obvious reluctance, he offered his other arm to Morgana. "Shall I trace the two of you?"

"Only if you want me to make merry with your intestines," Morgana replied sweetly. She never allowed herself to be traced, always traveling via a portal spell.

Bettina didn't particularly care for it either. Unfortunately, her demon half hadn't enabled her to teleport on her own, so she always felt like a failure whenever someone so easily did it.

Could nothing about me be demonic?

"But you may escort us." Morgana took Raum's arm, "accidentally" smacking him with her sharp headdress.

Dual-purpose pieces at work . . .

The three rode the elevator-manned by ogres-down to the ground floor, then started toward the Iron Ring at the outer edge of the town, near the great marsh.

With each step, the tension between her guardians grew and her own mood deteriorated even more.

I feel like a sacrifice-one shove away from a volcano opening. And still she felt more dread for Cas than for herself. Think of other things. . . .

All the fanfare distracted her to a degree. The tournament was a formal occasion, with Abaddonae donning their best clothing. Many male demons had pierced their horns with gold loops, while females rouged their much smaller horns.

Older demons clacked around in antique armor, the pieces squeaking from disuse, but the details and designs were more ornate than on modern armor. Bettina studied the engravings and raised filigrees with interest.

Finally they reached the ring. Roughly an acre in size, the arena was surrounded by stadium seats and completely caged in by iron bars. Jagged spikes protruded inward at every crossbar. Fog curled around the macabre structure, held at bay by the blue and orange flames dancing above enormous torches.

At opposite ends of the ring were a grandstand and the entrance to the warriors' sanctum, a series of catacomb-like tunnels. Running deep beneath the ring, the sanctum was like an underground bullpen for competitors to await their matches.

The grandstand was a large covered stage, swathed with precious silks. Bettina's Sorceri sensibilities couldn't help but thrill at the bold riot of colors. Sometimes Rune could be . . . bland.

Two long banquet tables stretched along either side. One table was filled with demon lords and ladies who bowed and scraped for Raum. Not so much for me.

They were all aware that she'd been attacked and physically defeated. Yet she was also the great Mathar's only offspring. Her subjects didn't quite know what to do with her.

Fitting. Folks, I don't quite know what to do with me either.

The other table was peopled with masked Sorceri dignitaries who simpered before Morgana.

Again, not so much for me. They all knew she'd had her power taken. When Morgana wasn't looking, they treated Bettina like an Inferi.

Not a real demon, not a real sorceress. Imposter . . .

In the center was another dais and a table for Bettina, Morgana, and Raum. Directly below them was the sign-in station, with weighty scrolls stacked like logs. Those contracts were thicker than one of Raum's burly arms, enumerating what must be thousands of rules.

As each contestant-with his entourage of squires and delegates-finished his processional, he would file into this station to sign a scroll, entering into an unbreakable pact.

Beside the scrolls was a quill and a dagger, because the contestants signed these pacts in blood. Bettina was privy to few rules, but she knew that the only way out of the tournament was to win-or die.

It was all so wretchedly . . . medieval. Most of the Lore's demonarchies were.

She picked up a schedule of events from her place setting. The first night's contest was to be announced. The next several nights would involve individual bouts within the Iron Ring. Night seven was indeed lady's choice-a mystery round. Even to the lady . . .

The semifinals would be held on night eight, with the final round and wedding occurring on night nine.

Bettina peered over the crowd, searching in vain for Cas, wanting him here with her. Instead she was flanked by Morgana on her right and Raum on her left, like bulwarks.

As the lengthy procession drew closer, her anxiety escalated. She turned to Raum. "Why are so many creatures entering? Abaddon's rich, but not wildly so. Our climate is hard to get used to."

He briefly buried his face in an oversize tankard of brew, then said, "Because your loveliness is legendary-"

"Raum. Please."

He made a gruff sound, then said, "Some are glory hounds, but mostly it's the Accession. War has routed many Loreans from their homes. Others are champions for an entire species, who hope to win the throne and give their peoples a place to live. Some are emissaries of a sort, looking for an alliance for their realms. Still others are pawns, controlled by powerful masters, who'll merely cede the crown if they win."