Shadow's Claim
Page 92

There. A pulse point in Gourlav'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, Gourlav clamped his neck and reared back.
Freed of Gourlav'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. Gourlav 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 Gourlav 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.
Gourlav traced for it. Somehow the vampire beat him there. In a stunning show of strength, Daciano shoved his fists straight out, connecting with Gourlav'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 Gourlav was back on his feet too soon. The vampire charged toward his opponent, gaining speed. With a roar, Gourlav 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 Gourlav 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, Gourlav 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. Gourlav 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 Gourlav's way. The primordial went lurching forward. Behind him, a blaze erupted, like . . . like dawn.
As Gourlav 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.
Daciano traced into a lunge, launching himself at Gourlav, that scythe flaming above the vampire's head in a mind-boggling tableau.
Gourlav seemed blinded, confused. Too late, he tried to teleport. Daciano had already swung.
The scythe sliced through one protective shoulder horn, then the primordial's meaty neck, then another horn. Cutting like a laser.
The creature's head bounced, its mouth still moving. Its body crashed to the ground like a felled moonraker tree. Spectators froze, dread sweeping over them.
Cas clutched her arm, readying to trace her to safety. At once, Raum teleported to join the squadron of demon guards. Unsheathing his sword, he ordered them to ready their own.
Waiting . . . waiting . . .
The primordial ceded death so slowly. The decapitated body twitched and writhed. Its arms flailed as if to search for its head.
Yet not a drop of blood spilled. The unnatural flame had seared Gourlav's pebbly skin.
Cauterized? No blood? Then Daciano would . . . live?
He'll live! This was finished! The audience must've realized this just as Bettina did; they went wild. Streamers coasted down from the stands. The soldiers sagged with relief, then got to work securing the body; Raum bear-hugged anyone unlucky enough to be close by.
And the victor?
Daciano stood covered in his own blood, holding that unfathomable weapon. It cascaded light down over him, painting him like an anointed warrior. His bared chest heaved with bravely earned wounds. He seemed to have forgotten them. His sweat-slickened skin gleamed, corded muscles rippling.
Not only had he taken the Vrekeners' heads, he'd taken one of their sources of power.