Dreams of a Dark Warrior

by Kresley Cole

Declan sprinted, unable to reach her before she struck out, swirling with those swords like a tornado, slicing down men with unfathomable speed.

  A dozen more soldiers had opened fire on her with their laserlike charge throwers. But those powerful weapons weren't slowing her.

  Hair whipping all around her face, she took the electricity, seeming to consume it. Lips curling, she stabbed her swords back into their sheaths and opened her arms wide.

  Her lids briefly slid shut in pleasure.

  As he ran, he inexplicably shuddered in reaction. Thoughts arose that never should, impulses long denied. ...

  "That all you got, muthafuckas?" She glowed brighter, illuminating the street. "I like electricity, you dumbasses! Hit me with another."

  They did. She sucked it in. The streetlights surrounding her began to flare from her radiant energy.

  "Know what else? I'm a freaking conduit." She caught a jolt in one hand, and channeled it back with her other. She hit one soldier, exploding him into the air, killing him instantly.

  Rage erupted within Declan. The strength and speed he fought so hard to hide rose to the fore. Blood pumped to his muscles, his thoughts dimming. Like a blur, he closed in on her, unsheathing his sword as he ran.

  "You want some of this?" She turned to another soldier, shooting again. "How 'bout you?" And again.

  Declan stole behind her, wrapping one arm around her neck to yank her back into him. He inhaled her scent, felt her body, hesitated. Stab her, incapacitate her.

  When she thrashed against his chest with inconceivable strength, his training took over and he planted his sword into her side, twisting the blade within her.

  Lightning struck nearby. She gasped at the pain. A debilitating wound, even for an immortal.

  Blood bubbled from her lips and poured from the gash. Her little body trembled against him, her skin cooling as her light dimmed.

  Wrong! his mind screamed. Dizziness hit him as that familiar tension multiplied, knotting every one of his muscles, nearly crippling him. He swayed, quickly withdrawing his blade.

  Without him supporting her, she collapsed, curling up on the filthy street. As blood streamed from her side, she narrowed her eyes up at him. They were bright silver, brilliant. Her blond lashes seemed to glitter all around them. Two tears spilled.

  Wrong.

  He clenched the hilt of his bloody sword, his gut churning until he almost vomited.

  "You," she bit out. She gazed at him with recognition, brows drawing together as if with ... betrayal. "You'll pay."

  Some of the remaining soldiers stared at the exchange in confusion. Reminded of his mission, Declan grated, "Bag her."

  Disabled by her wound, she couldn't defend herself as two soldiers bound her wrists behind her back. She drew a breath to shriek, but they slapped a special tape over her mouth. Another pair descended on her, one with a black sack for her head and another with a sedative-filled syringe. She struggled wildly as they tightened the sack over her.

  Once they'd administered the sedative, her body twitched twice, then fell limp. Utterly defenseless.

  This creature had demonstrated monstrous power. Now she lay as if dead.

  His men disarmed her, then tossed her into the sole functioning van. Her shirt rode up, revealing the bloody wound Declan had given her.

  Why was he sickened? He raked his hand through his hair, then squeezed his forehead. His skull felt like it was splitting.

  A thousand times he'd struck, collecting enemies to be taken back to the Order's compound. What was different about this one?

  "Magister?" a soldier said. "Are you all right, sir?"

  Declan gazed at their captive, then down at his gloved hands, noting how they shook. No, I'm not fuckin' all right! He'd almost wished his hands had been bare when he'd taken her. To feel a woman's flesh after so long ...

  He'd craved touching her even as he'd stabbed her.

  Sick.

  Declan peered at the soldier. As he coldly said, "Of course, I'm all right," he thought, They're being led by a madman.

  THREE

  In the transport plane's cabin, Declan scuffed to the bed, only partially dried off from his recent shower. He shed the towel around his hips, then fell back on the foam mattress. Shoving the heels of his palms against his eyes, he rubbed till his lids stung.

  His fatigue wasn't surprising. Whenever he unleashed his abilities, he suffered acute exhaustion, which was one of the reasons he took medicine to diminish them. Plus, he seldom slept on these hunting trips.

  Just hours after the Valkyrie, he and his remaining men had set back out and bagged an easily captured witch. Now, at last, he could return home.

  He should be out cold, but the tension within him wound even tighter. For as long as he could remember, he'd felt a constant pain in his chest coupled with a punishing anxiety that ate at the pit of his gut. To this, he added frequent nightmares about a fiend at his back, his body gored by steel, and a woman's screams.

  That harrowing sense of loss ...

  He called it the strain. Because even as a lad, he'd known it would break him one day.

  His medicine helped, but those nightly injections couldn't quell it completely. It proved too strong, too pervasive.

  Right now, the strain was grueling, and he'd depleted his travel supply yesterday. They were still hours away from their isolated destination--a secret installation in the stormy southern Pacific. Which meant hours before he could score more.

  Declan supposed it was his fate always to be injecting something.

  The ride was jarring, the weather turbulent. He didn't mind flying, had trained as a pilot, but this nauseated even him.

  Or maybe it was the aftereffects of this night's work.

  The betrayed look in the Valkyrie's eyes still con-founded him. When capturing immortals, he'd been critically injured, even bespelled once; but never had one looked at him with recognition and then ... hurt. As if he'd broken the gravest promise.

  Never had he nearly vomited in the midst of a capture.

  He lifted the rubber-edged dog tags hanging around his neck. Behind one, he'd soldered a small medallion, an old Irish charm for luck. His da had bought it for him when Declan was a lad. At times like this, Declan would rub his thumb over it, though no luck had ever come of it.

  It was a reminder of what her kind had cost him, what they were capable of.

  The Valkyrie had killed ten of his men.

  And yet he couldn't stop himself from glancing at his cabin door. She was in the transport bay. He could reach it easily from here.

  What is this? Why did Declan feel like he'd die if he didn't see her that second?

  He recalled that expression of ecstasy on her face--and the way he'd responded. He remembered his thoughts at that moment, was shamed by the ideas that had arisen.

  To touch that glowing skin, to be burned by it ...

  When he'd seized her in his arms, he'd nearly groaned. That had been the most his body had touched a female's in years. Her scent and curves had tantalized him.

  But in the end, his training had taken over, and he'd stabbed her.

  He reached beside the bed, collecting the sword he always kept close. He unsheathed it, turning it back and forth in the muted cabin light. Crimson still stained the blade near the hilt.

  How much blood it has spilled. Immortal blood.

  Just two nights ago, he'd used it to capture an ancient vampire, one that had killed thousands of humans over its unending lifetime, like a silent plague.

  Preston Webb had given Declan the blade for his Order initiation, telling him, "Your family would have been proud, son."

  If they hadn't been tortured by detrus creatures right before my eyes.

  Right alongside me ...

  Best that they hadn't survived. Else they'd be as fucked in the head as Declan was. And his brother, Colm? Who'd had his throat slit at fifteen years old?

  Colm had been the lucky one.

  With an inward shake, Declan
sheathed the sword. Why am I thinking about that night now? He'd buried those memories deep; his medicine helped keep them there.

  He'd been considering doubling up on his doses for months. Now he decided it was time. Which meant he'd need to see his "pusher" upon returning to the island. For now, he could do nothing but wait.

  Another glance at the door ...

  When Regin woke, she was bound and gagged, with a hood over her head and her body strapped to a gurney of some sort. She could tell she was on a plane, could scent saltwater miles beneath them.

  Can this night get any worse?

  Memories flooded her consciousness: shadowy men shooting her with electricity ... her bliss from said electricity ... a large male with uncanny speed getting the drop on her. ...

  He'd stabbed her in the side? The pain still throbbing there confirmed her injury--

  Ah, gods! He'd been Aidan, returned once more.

  She felt crazed, almost laughing hysterically. Had she thought this night couldn't get any worse? Aidan, have you come to perish gruesomely? Then I'm your girl!

  But never in his other lifetimes had he harmed her. If he was truly Aidan, then surely those other men were evil, and he'd had to play along.

  By twisting the knife?

  He'd been so fast, powerful. No surprise there. In each reincarnation, he'd been a berserker, even if he hadn't known it.

  No matter what, she had to get away from him. She strained against the bindings securing her wrists behind her back. Nothing. Likely unbreakable. And that injection had probably weakened her.

  Forced to lie here, bound, in pitch darkness.

  Regin didn't have Zen, wasn't insane like Nix or laser-focused like Lucia. Each second like this, in a plane taking her farther from where she needed to be, was maddening. "Oh, you'll fly out tonight," Nix had told her. Yuk it up. You're so going to pay.

  But why would Nix do this? Especially after the bomb she'd dropped on Regin right before they'd separated on Bourbon Street: "When Cruach rises this time, he'll ring in the apocalypse. Every sentient being on earth will become infected with the need to sacrifice whoever they love most."

  Uh, man down here, Nix. One fewer apocalypse aversion associate. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, soothsayer--

  The click of a door sounded. Then footsteps. Someone sat next to her. She could feel tension rolling off him, knew it was Aidan.

  Who for some reason had gutted her in a dirty street.

  He rose, paced, then sat once more. He said nothing, didn't move, but she knew his gaze was raking over her.

  When she remembered to breathe, he said, "Awake already." A faint accent tinged his deep voice, but she couldn't place it. He pulled her hood off.

  She blinked against the low light, noting details as he came into focus. Dear gods, he was big, as tall as the original warlord she'd almost fallen in love with.

  He was dressed all in black, from his jacket and combat pants to his gloves. His skin was pale, stark against the pitch-black hair that hung down past his forehead, partially concealing scars on one cheek. He was middle-aged, probably upper thirties, with a strong jaw, broad cheekbones--and Aidan's eyes. In this face, they looked cold.

  Though for one brief moment tonight, they'd glowed with a berserker's light--the telltale sign she'd spied while bleeding out in the street.

  Aidan. She hadn't imagined it. Hell, she'd been sensing his reincarnation for three decades, had been warned by Nix for just as long.

  "I have questions for you, Valkyrie."

  Oh, I've got some for you, too. Like why you did a blender on my insides.

  "Answer them truthfully, and you won't be harmed more this night."

  This night? Finally, she nodded. With one gloved hand, he reached for her mouth. With his other, he shoved a cocked pistol against her temple. "I know a gunshot won't kill you. But it'll shut you up. Try one of your Valkyrie shrieks, and I'll put a bullet in your brain."

  Definitely not an act. Great. Her Viking had come back wrong. She'd figured it would have to happen sooner or later. Hello, later.

  All the effort she'd gone through to flee from him these past decades, to spare his current life, was for nothing.

  So why had he captured her? And who were those men with him?

  "Do you understand me, female?"

  When she nodded again, he snatched the tape off, leaving her lips stinging like fire. She bit back a foul curse, growing less freaked and more pissed with each second. Regin's temper was legendary for a reason.

  "How did your sister Nix know we'd been following you? And why did she dispatch you to attack my men?"

  "Dispatch?" He must've bugged her car! What exactly had he heard? "You know, it was more of a suggestion, like try the prime rib."

  His pale lips curved into an evil sneer. "Have you ever been shot in the head before? I've often wondered what the pain would be like."

  "I have been, and it hurts," she answered honestly. "I'll answer your questions, if you tell me who you are and why I've been captured."

  His eyes narrowed. "I'm Declan Chase."

  He thought his name was Declan. But not for long.

  "I work for the Order, a mortal army at war with your kind."

  "Never heard of 'em." I'm screwed. "Then why have you taken me prisoner? Why not just kill me?" Maybe she was to be a war prize? Then history would repeat itself. She had to bite back a hysterical laugh. "You were coming for me anyway, weren't you?"

  "You were selected for capture. We also ... study unique immortals."

  Something about the way he said that last part gave her chills. "You mean experiment?"

  "Correct."

  Yep. Screwed. Her eyes darted around the cargo hold. How the hell could she escape? "And that's where you're taking me now? To a jail? Or probably a lab?"

  "We call it a facility. Now answer my questions," he said, his accent growing thicker.

  It was either Irish or lowlands Scot. This Aidan version was Celtic. Before, he'd been a French knight, a Spanish privateer, and an English cavalryman.

  "Nix knows just about everything," Regin said. "She's a soothsayer. In fact, I'm sure she's already foreseen where you're taking me. I don't know why she wanted me to attack your men." Unless she planned for me to get captured. Knowing Nix, she probably considered all this a date that she'd set up between Regin and Aidan. "With her, I usually don't ask."

  "We'll discover it on our own anyway." The muzzle pressed harder against her temple. "Tell me, then, did you enjoy killing my men?"

  Regin rolled her eyes. "Of course I enjoyed offing them. You guys came to our turf, remember?" Filter, Regin!

  "I should off you right here." He began unconsciously running the muzzle up and down her cheek.

  She could shriek before he could shoot her, blowing out the glass of this aircraft. She might survive a crash. Aidan would be done for.

  Even now she hesitated to harm him. "I can't tell you how much you would regret that."

  "Because your kind will exact revenge on me?" He cast her that cruel sneer, a twisting of his lips. "And I can't tell you how many times I've heard that."

  She shook her head. "No, not because of revenge. You'll regret hurting me."

  "Regret? I despise your kind. I savored hurting you, anticipate the next time I can."

  Once he remembered, his actions would put him to his knees with misery.

  "Why did you act as if you know me?" he asked.

  How to answer that? The sooner he remembered, the sooner he died. In the past, she'd done everything she could to keep him from remembering. I can't tell him. "I thought you were someone else." When she shrugged as best as she could, the wound in her side erupted in fresh pain. Between gritted teeth, she said, "Since you've brought it up, my kind will exact revenge. They'll unleash hell on you for this."

  He leaned in as if imparting a secret. "Then they had best do it fast. Because we're going to interrogate you, and examine you, and then we'll behead you. You'll beg for mercy, but I'll grant
you none."

  Icy dread shivered over her. "What the hell," Regin whispered, "did I ever do to you?"

  He shoved the tape back over her mouth and yanked the hood down. At her ear, he rasped, "You exist."

  Another shot in her arm, and unconsciousness took her once more.

  FOUR

  Back at the facility, Declan signed over his unconscious prisoners to the warden, a stout, beady-eyed arsehole named Fegley.

  The man hated Declan. The feeling was mutual.

  Fegley was in charge of processing the inmates, removing their effects and any hidden weapons, formally ID'ing them, and collaring them. While he worked, a physician from the research arm would take biological samples for an initial workup, then the prisoner would be transferred to one of the three hundred cells spread out over two containment wards.

  "Which cell are you putting the Valkyrie in?" Declan asked.

  "Seventy."

  "Why there?" Two inmates already occupied that cell. Yes, the facility was overcrowded, and they'd been doubling up, but prisoners were usually placed with much forethought.

  So why put the Valkyrie with a female fey assassin and a semi-catatonic male halfling?

  "More prisoners came in while you were gone." Fegley shrugged. "Webb ordered her into that one. And I don't question orders," he said pointedly.

  Stifling his long-denied urge to strike the man, Declan turned toward the research ward and his own suite of rooms.

  Though he didn't understand Webb's reasoning at times, it wasn't his place to question an order either. Or to question anything. Even when he itched to know how Webb acquired new information about their foes. Or how this island was kept hidden from their detrus soothsayers and oracles. ...

  When Declan reached his suite, he unlocked the executive office he used as a reception area. From that room, two corridors branched off behind concealed panels. One led to a storage warehouse--with an emergency escape tunnel--the other to his private quarters. There he had a sizable multilevel space with a gym, a kitchen, a work and sleep area, and an adjoining bath.

  The only home he'd known for nearly a decade.

  Inside his inner chamber, he removed his gloves and jacket. There were only two places in the world he felt comfortable enough to shed the layer of clothes that kept his ruined skin hidden: here within this sanctum, and out in the desolate forests on the island.

  Releasing a weary exhalation, he sank into the chair at his control console. Above the curved desk and computer keyboard stretched a ninety-six-inch LCD screen. Across that extended monitor, he could pull up multiple broadcast feeds from the facility's cameras.