Shadow's Claim
Page 24
Morgana was already hypercritical about Bettina's looks, finding her lacking compared to Bettina's mother, Eleara.
Bettina remembered one of her earliest visits with Morgana: "Oh, for the love of gold, you are an odd, tiny thing, aren't you?" she'd said with a frown. "Your features can't decide if they want to be impish like a demon cub's or arresting like Eleara's. Hmm. Well, little freakling, be of cheer, for it can only go up from here. . . ."
At the memory, Bettina set the glamour away. She wanted her godmother to know something was amiss. No less than my entire life.
"Still having the nightmare?" Salem asked.
"Unfortunately." This afternoon, Bettina had shot upright in bed, midway into one of her panic attacks. Ever since her beating, she'd been plagued with them. Her body had been tight with strain, her skin covered with perspiration. Her lungs had felt constricted as if by a vise.
She'd peered around her room, assuring herself, I'm in my home. Those fiends aren't here. No Vrekener has ever come to Abaddon. . . .
Bettina had two goals in life. One of which was to feel safe again. She could remember what it was like not to have fear constantly creeping up on her. She remembered life without her debilitating attacks.
She used to be able to walk the town without a care, used to be able to visit the rain forest by herself. Now she couldn't exit the castle unescorted, could scarcely navigate the interior of it alone.
Her episodes seemed to be getting worse. And last night's break-in had been a serious blow to her recovery. Despite a warding spell, the vampire had entered her room "with ease."
"You should talk to someone about it," Salem suggested. "Get it off your chest."
She rubbed her pounding temples. "Are you offering to be a sounding board for me?"
"Only if you want to hear your mirror snore. From what I've been able to piece together, I'd be bored silly."
She glared, unable to tell if he was joking. "Then why are you still here?"
"I found out a lot about our mysterious assassin. Did a little digging, calling in favors from some very old phantoms. No one knows secrets like phantoms."
"Tell me," she quickly said, beyond curious about the vampire Daciano.
"It's rumored that his people live inside the hollowed-out mountains of an entire range. No one in the Lore can prove they exist, not even the most skilled phantom spies. Caspion could very well be the only outsider at large who has seen Dacia and lived. They'll remedy that soon enough."
Bettina's hands fluttered to her throat. Why wouldn't Caspion agree to enter the tournament? He'd prefer death by assassin over her? Was he so averse to exploring even the possibility that she was his?
Salem continued, "Their species is proud, powerful, but they never engage wiv the outside. If a Dacian is seen outside of the realm by an otherlander-that's what they call us-then he's mystically forbidden to return. Except for in your case. According to my sources, the Bride of a Dacian is a Dacian, to their way of thinking. So he could go home. But not after he comes for you tonight, before all and sundry."
"He's not interested in me. Remember? He flat-out told me he had no plans to return for me, and he can't lie."
Naturally Bettina was delighted by the idea of his never returning-if that meant Cas was safe. Yet a tiny part of her also had to wonder why males found it so easy to pass her over. She'd never heard of a vampire ditching his Bride. Ever.
"You can't see, but I'm shrugging." In a contemplative tone, he said, "Can you picture living in Dacia? Learning all about the Realm of Blood and Mist? I'd give me right invisible arm for a chance at that."
"Living underground, inside a mountain? With no forest? Never to feel the sun on one's face?" Nice place to visit, but . . . "Let's just say I'm glad I don't have to worry about Daciano returning."
"I'm telling you, he'll be back. And if you ever go to Dacia, I'm tagging along," Salem assured her. "Oh, and by the way, your patroness contacted us, wants a new piece. Something 'seductively lethal.' "
Another commission? Bettina experienced a thrill. Though she'd been selling jewelry for years now, it'd never been about the compensation; her parents had left her plenty of wealth, which Raum continued to grow for her.
If Bettina's first goal in life was to feel safe, her second was to walk down a busy street and see someone wearing her creations. She'd daydreamed about it, wondering how she'd react.
After the incident, she'd changed her focus, designing adornments with a dual purpose-jewelry pieces that doubled as weapons.
She hand-fashioned old standbys-like rings with poison reservoirs-as well as body jewelry: mesh tops that could ward off a sword blow, armor-piercing brooches, collars with embedded blades.
Sorceri coveted such accessories, but high-quality pieces were often hard to come by.
Bettina liked to call her work "lethal luxe" or "blood bling." Salem laughingly deemed them "slaughter chic," avowing that "Deadly is the new black."
Whenever anxiety threatened or she was dwelling on her tragedy in the mortal realm, she adjourned to her workshop and created in a frenzy.
When Salem had first seen her like this, he'd sneered, "Look at the Keebler elf, wiv her wittle tools!" Then he'd grown intrigued with her creations, securing her first patron-for a hefty finder's fee, of course.
Bettina remembered one of her earliest visits with Morgana: "Oh, for the love of gold, you are an odd, tiny thing, aren't you?" she'd said with a frown. "Your features can't decide if they want to be impish like a demon cub's or arresting like Eleara's. Hmm. Well, little freakling, be of cheer, for it can only go up from here. . . ."
At the memory, Bettina set the glamour away. She wanted her godmother to know something was amiss. No less than my entire life.
"Still having the nightmare?" Salem asked.
"Unfortunately." This afternoon, Bettina had shot upright in bed, midway into one of her panic attacks. Ever since her beating, she'd been plagued with them. Her body had been tight with strain, her skin covered with perspiration. Her lungs had felt constricted as if by a vise.
She'd peered around her room, assuring herself, I'm in my home. Those fiends aren't here. No Vrekener has ever come to Abaddon. . . .
Bettina had two goals in life. One of which was to feel safe again. She could remember what it was like not to have fear constantly creeping up on her. She remembered life without her debilitating attacks.
She used to be able to walk the town without a care, used to be able to visit the rain forest by herself. Now she couldn't exit the castle unescorted, could scarcely navigate the interior of it alone.
Her episodes seemed to be getting worse. And last night's break-in had been a serious blow to her recovery. Despite a warding spell, the vampire had entered her room "with ease."
"You should talk to someone about it," Salem suggested. "Get it off your chest."
She rubbed her pounding temples. "Are you offering to be a sounding board for me?"
"Only if you want to hear your mirror snore. From what I've been able to piece together, I'd be bored silly."
She glared, unable to tell if he was joking. "Then why are you still here?"
"I found out a lot about our mysterious assassin. Did a little digging, calling in favors from some very old phantoms. No one knows secrets like phantoms."
"Tell me," she quickly said, beyond curious about the vampire Daciano.
"It's rumored that his people live inside the hollowed-out mountains of an entire range. No one in the Lore can prove they exist, not even the most skilled phantom spies. Caspion could very well be the only outsider at large who has seen Dacia and lived. They'll remedy that soon enough."
Bettina's hands fluttered to her throat. Why wouldn't Caspion agree to enter the tournament? He'd prefer death by assassin over her? Was he so averse to exploring even the possibility that she was his?
Salem continued, "Their species is proud, powerful, but they never engage wiv the outside. If a Dacian is seen outside of the realm by an otherlander-that's what they call us-then he's mystically forbidden to return. Except for in your case. According to my sources, the Bride of a Dacian is a Dacian, to their way of thinking. So he could go home. But not after he comes for you tonight, before all and sundry."
"He's not interested in me. Remember? He flat-out told me he had no plans to return for me, and he can't lie."
Naturally Bettina was delighted by the idea of his never returning-if that meant Cas was safe. Yet a tiny part of her also had to wonder why males found it so easy to pass her over. She'd never heard of a vampire ditching his Bride. Ever.
"You can't see, but I'm shrugging." In a contemplative tone, he said, "Can you picture living in Dacia? Learning all about the Realm of Blood and Mist? I'd give me right invisible arm for a chance at that."
"Living underground, inside a mountain? With no forest? Never to feel the sun on one's face?" Nice place to visit, but . . . "Let's just say I'm glad I don't have to worry about Daciano returning."
"I'm telling you, he'll be back. And if you ever go to Dacia, I'm tagging along," Salem assured her. "Oh, and by the way, your patroness contacted us, wants a new piece. Something 'seductively lethal.' "
Another commission? Bettina experienced a thrill. Though she'd been selling jewelry for years now, it'd never been about the compensation; her parents had left her plenty of wealth, which Raum continued to grow for her.
If Bettina's first goal in life was to feel safe, her second was to walk down a busy street and see someone wearing her creations. She'd daydreamed about it, wondering how she'd react.
After the incident, she'd changed her focus, designing adornments with a dual purpose-jewelry pieces that doubled as weapons.
She hand-fashioned old standbys-like rings with poison reservoirs-as well as body jewelry: mesh tops that could ward off a sword blow, armor-piercing brooches, collars with embedded blades.
Sorceri coveted such accessories, but high-quality pieces were often hard to come by.
Bettina liked to call her work "lethal luxe" or "blood bling." Salem laughingly deemed them "slaughter chic," avowing that "Deadly is the new black."
Whenever anxiety threatened or she was dwelling on her tragedy in the mortal realm, she adjourned to her workshop and created in a frenzy.
When Salem had first seen her like this, he'd sneered, "Look at the Keebler elf, wiv her wittle tools!" Then he'd grown intrigued with her creations, securing her first patron-for a hefty finder's fee, of course.
