Without those things . . . I will not be who I was.
"We're all slowly moldering down here," Kosmina said, "as good as dead, just waiting for a deathblow. At least you'll be free now."
"As good as dead?" he scoffed. She exaggerated.
"Mirceo said all of the royals-except for him-were 'in stasis.' "
Trehan pulled the invitation from his coat pocket. Have I been "in stasis"? If so, nothing could upend his entire existence quite like this tournament.
A marriage ceremony. Death matches in a stadium. The crown of the Abaddonae.
Me, a demon king?
When he gazed back at Kosmina, he found her eyes watering. "There now, Niece." He chucked her under the chin. "I'll probably return anon."
As if he hadn't spoken, she said, "I will miss you."
He picked up his bag, then gazed around for another look. A last look?
"Uncle Trehan?"
"Yes?"
"Do you want to hear something sad?" He raised his brows. "Your leaving is the most exciting thing that's ever happened in my life. . . ."
Morgana stood at the doorway in all her furious majesty.
"You are not yet dressed, and I am unamused," she snapped as she swept her gaze over Bettina, still clad in her robe. Three slaves-powerless Sorceri known as Inferi-trailed in the sorceress's wake, weighed down with cases of cosmetics and accessories. "Ah, you've been working on your trinkets, haven't you? What an . . . adorable hobby."
"They're not trinkets." Bettina's shoulders went back. "They're art; I'm an artist. And it's not a hobby-I sell more than I can make."
"Of course you do, dearest freakling." Then she frowned. "Where's your phantom? The notorious Salem? I don't sense him."
"He stepped out to let me get ready."
When her godmother made a moue of disappointment, her Inferi as well, Bettina asked, "What exactly is Salem notorious for?"
"Why don't you ask him?" Morgana's attention was already on Bettina's wardrobe. "Now, we have scant time! Raum, curse his demonic soul, will be here at sunset to escort you." She waved her hand, and several outfits flew out of Bettina's wardrobe, landing on a divan. Then she turned to Bettina. "Let's see what we have to work with." Morgana shoved her in front of a full-length mirror, stepping behind her.
The difference between the two women was striking. Voluptuous Morgana wore a gauzy scarlet skirt, an intricately wrought gold top that concealed her br**sts-barely-and a connecting jeweled collar. Claw-tipped gauntlets covered her hands and forearms.
Her pale blond hair was interwoven throughout her gold headdress. The piece was substantial, fanning out behind her like a barbed sunset, so wide it had narrowly cleared Bettina's doorway.
Her mask was black with inlaid onyx, highlighting her lustrous eyes, her nearly black irises.
Morgana was resplendent; Bettina was . . . Bettina.
On almost every day of her life, she was reminded of her own ordinariness. The male she loved considered her nothing more than a plucky-sisterly-tagalong. Her godmother, a renowned beauty, considered her the awkward spawn of Bettina's late mother.
Strangely, the Dacian had gazed at Bettina as if she were the most beautiful creature in the world. Of all the females the vampire had ever met, she had been the only one who could bring him back to life.
And the things he'd told her! For him, Bettina's eyes hadn't been promising good things, or even seductive things, but irresistible ones. He hadn't merely found pleasure with her, he'd savored her "treats" because she'd "delivered." He hadn't simply enjoyed her taste; it had maddened him.
Just thinking about his husky tone as he'd uttered these shocking things made her face and chest flush-
"You appear overtired," Morgana said with a critical eye. "This won't do. You must look your best when you're presented this eve."
"I believe you mean displayed."