"I never saw him before last night. You know that."
"You held his things for him while he fought," Salem pointed out.
"Because he foisted his coat on me!"
"Perception is reality, chit. The wily leech wants others to think you're his."
Chit? She was a princess! Why did everyone forget that?
Because you let them. . . . She remembered Morgana had once told her, "With your actions, you train others how to treat you."
"I don't want to talk about the vampire," she said. "I've got work to do." She turned toward her workshop, planting herself at her drafting table.
Again and again she attempted to sketch a new piece, but she was stumped. She needed a unique design, something Patroness had never seen.
She tapped her pencil against her bottom lip, her thoughts turning to tonight. Even if she decided to go, how was she supposed to get from point A to point B alone, without an episode?
To go undetected, she'd have to choose the most deserted route. A recipe for disaster.
Which would be stronger? A panic attack-or her vow to give the vampire what he asked for?
Bettina rose, stretched in a futile effort to relieve the tension in her shoulders, then began to wander aimlessly, still debating what to do.
She found Salem in the sitting room, unusually quiet, using telekinesis to thumb through her celebrity magazines-luxuries imported from the mortal realm.
She paced up and back; he turned a page. Repeat.
They continued like this as her grandfather clock ticked on. . . .
Toward midnight, she knew she had to get rid of him soon. But how?
"Princess." Salem suddenly occupied the door. "Going out for a spot."
"Pardon?" Yes, she wanted to get rid of him, but what if she'd actually wanted protection? "You're leaving me? What if I'm afraid the vampire might return?"
"Tonight I'm on a mission."
"What kind of mission?"
"The kind that takes precedence over protecting you from a vampire who will never hurt you."
"Tell me what you're talking about."
"I'm going to spy on Gourlav, try to puzzle out a way to kill him-without bringing ruin on the kingdom. Otherwise you just got engaged to him tonight."
She shivered at the thought. Before she could ask more, he said, "Laters."
Alone. One less obstacle to prevent her midnight meeting.
Bettina poured a glass of wine with a shaking hand. Dread over the short walk to the field of tents mingled with a different kind of anxiety. What favors would Daciano want from her? What might he demand? Maybe he'd ask for a repeat of what had happened last night.
More kissing, more touching.
She was so curious about him, about his reactions to her-about males in general.
If only she could remember her first sexual experience more clearly. Though much was foggy, three things had been etched into her mind: the pleasure of his mouth on her br**sts, the new and wondrous feel of his shaft, and the scalding heat of his seed.
Face flushing, she drank deeply. She thought about sex as much as the next twenty-something halfling, and Daciano had given Bettina her first taste of real passion.
In turn, she'd blooded him, giving him his first release since his heart had stopped beating; had it been all he'd hoped?
How could it have been? She was hardly an experienced sexpot. Add "sexually untutored" to her list of deficits.
Damn it, how could she be insecure about this-she hadn't asked for him to steal into her bed!
Okay, say I go . . . Yes, she'd promised to give him boons. But she hadn't vowed to perform them blindly. She needed to set parameters tonight. Then she'd proceed to learn everything she could about him to help Cas.
Salem will figure out Gourlav; I'll handle the vamp.
This worry might be all for naught. Most likely she'd freeze at the castle entrance, unable to venture forth. Or would her vow compel her to skulk down darkened lanes-alone, powerless-exactly the sort of place where enemies were wont to hide?
She inhaled deeply, struggling to block her mind off from those memories. To no avail.
We've been watching you, Princess. Those fiends still lived, could very well be watching her right now.
A mouse might escape from a hawk, but never for long.
She flung her glass against the wall, hating her fear. Hating herself.
Trehan often awaited his targets. He had crouched upon roofs in the night, leaning against chimneys. He had hovered above them as light as mist. Always, he studied them before he struck.
Now he stood in the foggy drizzle upon a rooftop outside Castle Rune, awaiting Bettina-to watch over her. After the way those drunken entrants had spoken about her, he would never allow her to walk through the encampment alone.
Earlier, he'd collected his bag of clothing and weapons from beneath the bridge-he supposed some part of him had always known he'd enter the tournament-then traced to the fallen vampire's tent.
Inside, he'd found an ornate desk and chair, a divan, golden goblets, carafes of blood, and a bed of furs on the ground, as was the vampire way. Amenities and luxury for the taking. The Horde had always been wealthy.
So he'd unpacked his few belongings. In his haste, he'd been forced to leave behind so much. But he had the two items he truly treasured: his father's sword and the scry crystal. The former was sentimental; the latter was priceless.
After hanging his standard outside the tent, he'd made himself at home-because that was the closest thing he had to one now.