Shadow's Seduction(10)

“Which is?” Cas asked, but he had a sinking suspicion in his gut. There were only two things in Abaddon that others might fight for.

“Whoever wins gets the crown of this entire demonarchy! Oh, and the hand of the princess.” The male spat out a bone and walked on.

Bettina, no. A godsdamned troll could win her hand! Her guardians must have browbeaten her until she’d agreed to this.

I could enter the tournament. Could save her. A sense of being watched lifted the tiny hairs on the back of his neck. Was a killer already loose in Abaddon? I could enter, if I live till morning. . . .





SIX


Last outpost before the Plane of Lost Years

Several months—or centuries?—later . . .



Mirceo was on the hunt.

As he moved through the smoky, rough-neck tavern, he grinned to himself. I, Mirceo Daciano, am chasing my fated one.

But he had good reason. Unlike most vampires, he knew his mate’s identity in advance of his blooding, and he was overjoyed with fate’s choice for him.

Weeks ago, when his heart had gone still in his chest for good, Mirceo had visited Balery, the new king’s fey oracle, and asked her when he would meet his mate. After rolling her bones, she’d blinked up at him and said four words that would change Mirceo’s life forever: You’ve already met him.

Him. There’d been no question to whom Balery had referred.

Most often a male’s mate would be a female. But not always.

His pairing with Caspion struck him as bloody brilliant. Nothing had ever made so much sense to Mirceo—which meant his reservations about monogamy and matehood had subsided.

His grin deepened. I’m now a believer in the system.

Caspion had once asked him, “What male wouldn’t rush headlong to meet his beautiful mate?” Indeed, demon. Indeed. Mirceo was ready to commit.

Now he just needed to find Caspion. Blocking out the excruciating sound of a tinny violin, Mirceo scanned the crowded tavern. Where are you . . . ?

He’d heard Caspion planned to head to the Plane of Lost Years—a savage, war-torn dimension where time moved differently—for some kind of self-exile.

Over my walking-dead body.

Their separation had gone on long enough. He wanted his best friend back—while expanding a few . . . parameters of their relationship.

Ignoring all the looks of interest he received from myriad immortals—I’m quite taken—he squared his shoulders, scarcely believing he’d soon be blooded. Once he spotted his mate, his heart would thud back to life. His lungs would fill with breath, and he would get hard as rock. . . .

But as he surveyed the crowd, a rare whisper of doubt arose. What if Caspion wasn’t the male Balery had referred to?

No, no. Mirceo wanted Caspion to be his mate. Ergo, fate would comply. Such was how things worked for him.

Yet what if the demon stubbornly resisted the bond between them? And Trehan might have damaged Mirceo’s chances with Caspion beyond repair. Both the demon and Trehan had entered the infamous Iron Ring of Abaddon—only one had been able to walk out.

Mirceo didn’t see the demon among all the beings here. Strange. The locating crystal he’d used had indicated Caspion was inside this structure. Though Mirceo’s senses weren’t as keen as a demon’s, he inhaled. . . .

He picked up the subtle thread of Caspion’s unforgettable scent—

There! The demon was sitting alone at a table in the shadows, lost in thought.

Mirceo’s brows drew together. Caspion seemed much changed. His careless, tousled hair was longer, and his normally clean-shaven face now had a golden shadow beard. His midnight-blue eyes seemed more . . . knowing. His body appeared to have grown, his shell-colored horns as well.

His appearance was edgier.

Darker.

That tournament in Abaddon had done something to Caspion, changing him.

Mirceo stared down at his chest. He wanted to change too, but his heart was still. His lungs took no breath. His cock was as hard as pudding.

No. It must be Caspion. He knocked a fist against his chest. Come on, heart . . . awaken!

Nothing.

Despite the patrons all around, Mirceo rubbed his member. Get stiff, you traitorous thing.

Not a twitch.

A buxom brunette demoness joined Caspion then, perching on his knee. Mirceo scowled. The female was all over him, peering up at the blond Adonis with an expression Mirceo had often received himself: I wore my pretty panties tonight, so let’s fuck.

A last lay before the demon left for the Plane of Lost Years?

Mirceo choked back a surge of jealousy. He’d never known this strangling emotion before he’d met Caspion—

A massive, behorned tavern-goer lurched near Caspion’s table, sloshing brew from a tankard the size of a vat.

Drawing the brunette out of the way, Caspion shot to his feet, saving her from a good dousing. “Watch what you’re about,” he grated to the giant.