Shadow's Claim by Kresley Cole

ratcheted up. The vampire might return for Caspion soon; the tournament was definitely about to begin.
    No more stalling. She stepped from the large pool in her bathing chamber. This room was as medieval as everything else in Abaddon, but through miraculous feats of engineering—and the work of behind-the-scene ogres—she had managed to score hot, running water all the way up in her spire.
    Tossing on a robe, she asked Salem, “Got an eyeful again, didn’t you?” Life with a sylph roomie—her resident peeping phanTom—had drilled out much of her modesty.
    “Of course,” Salem answered from the foggy mirror above her sink. “How do you always know?”
    Bettina’s five senses might be humanlike, but her sixth sense was strong. Well, except when she was tanked on demon brew. And besides . . . “I know, because you always do it.”
    She swiped her sleeve over the glass, then studied her reflection. No better than before the bath. She still looked hungover and exhausted. When she’d finally managed to drift off to sleep this morning, her customary nightmares had plagued her.
    “I don’t understand why you spy on me,” she said. “It’s not like you have a body.” A servitude curse—for some mysterious crime—prevented him from becoming corporeal. And though he was still telekinetic, he couldn’t feel .
    “I won’t be like this forever. Why, one day I’ll be a real boy! And this gives me much masturbation fodder for the future.”
    She rolled her eyes, hoping he was kidding. When he’d arrived here three months ago, she’d made the mistake of picturing him as a harmless, genie-type sprite, much as Raum still thought him.
    The first time Bettina had sensed Salem spying, she’d figured if he wanted a peep at small breasts and zero hips . . . knock yourself out.
    Then she’d found out more about the “notorious” Salem from Morgana and her coterie, who’d known him before his curse. Apparently, Salem had been a ruthless warrior who “dripped sex appeal.”
    Bettina’s innocent genie bath time had taken on an awkward new dynamic.
    “You look like utter ass, chit,” he said now, nudging a glamour trinket toward her.
    Morgana had given it to her to conceal all her wounds after the incident, but there was still some magic left over. Should Bettina do a cursory camouflage, so her godmother wouldn’t spy anything amiss?
    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.