by Kresley Cole
Declan faced him once more, his attention fully engaged. To be able to hunt them ...
"They call themselves Loreans," Webb continued. "We just like to call them dead sons-of-bitches." He dug into his jacket pocket, then held up Declan's charm. "We found this. Is it yours?"
"Aye, it's mine." Hanging from a cord of leather was a thin medallion imprinted with two birds. His da had gotten it for him at a fair.
My father's dead.
Declan's hand shot out to snatch the medallion, the stitches up and down his body straining. Clutching it in his fist, he grated, "I want in."
"I thought you might say that. But it's not so simple. You're not even eighteen. Maybe if you were older, with some military training under your belt--"
"Now." Declan bit out the word. "Now, goddamn it!"
"And what about the drugs? I read your tox screen."
Declan flushed again. "I'll get clean."
"Even if we made exceptions for you, not everyone gets inducted into the Order. You'd have to be combat-trained, and it's grueling. Rangers and marines have told us that their training was a cakewalk compared to ours."
"I don't give a shite."
Webb's eyes bored into his own. "You'd be dealt pain on a daily basis to harden you, so that you could fight these fiends. And at every second, you would have to demonstrate a single-minded purpose, the obsession to eradicate immortals."
"This is mine by right, Webb. More than anyone's. Ye ken it is."
"You think about this. Long and hard. Because to fight these monsters, son, you'll have to become one. ..."
Declan shot upright, waking drenched in sweat. Drops of it trailed down his chest, past his dog tags, over his raised scars.
With a shudder, he stared down at the wounds that had been carved into his body from neck to waist. More covered his back and down both his arms to his fingers.
He dropped his head in his hands. The Neoptera had taken his flesh and made him drink the blood of the ones he'd killed. Why? And how much of that blood had tainted his own that night?
Maybe that was how Declan had gotten his strength and speed, his heightened senses. Maybe the drugs kept his change at bay all this time. What else could explain it?
God, to become a thing like that ...
Nothing that a Glock to the mouth can't cure, Dekko.
He forced himself to lie back, to control the mad drumming of his heart. It was too soon for another injection.
Twenty years later, and I'm still shooting up.
But the dream had been so realistic, gripping him harder than it had in memory. He stared at the ceiling, recalling those ensuing years, focusing his mind on all the work he'd done to get where he was now. ...
After his detox--a bleak period of unrelenting nausea and bone-jarring tremors--and four months of physical rehab for his injuries, the Order had taken him to their compound.
The training had been as punishing as Webb had promised. Pain came daily, but it did harden Declan. The commanders who hurt him the most were the ones he respected above all others.
When he'd heard other recruits complaining about "brainwashing techniques," Declan had been astounded that anyone might disagree with--or resist--what the commanders were instilling in them.
How could Declan be brainwashed into hating the detrus more than he already did?
Physically, Declan had every advantage over the other recruits. Even at seventeen, he was bigger, swifter, more powerful. Webb attributed it to kicking heroin, the training, the vitamins, and diet.
For once in his life, Declan had excelled, even thrived.
And while he'd learned weapons, hunting tactics, and military strategy, he'd begun educating himself and disguising his accent; he hadn't wanted his enemies to determine anything about him.
He buried all traces of his past so that no one could ever connect him to the ignorant seventeen-year-old junkie who'd begged for death while his tormentors laughed around mouthfuls of his blood and skin.
After his initiation into the Order, Declan had hunted down the offspring and forebears of the creatures who'd butchered his own family. Yet that hadn't been enough to satisfy him. He'd become obsessed with tracking more and erasing them from the face of the earth.
And no matter how much the detrus begged--he always made them beg--he'd slaughtered them. Nothing pleased him more.
But then two things had changed.
His abilities had become too noticeable; enter Dixon with her shots.
Webb had given him control of this installation, charging him with capturing and imprisoning the creatures Declan wanted only to kill.
Of course, Declan had obeyed the command, ignoring his own deep-seated needs. After all, the man had saved his life, then given him purpose.
Reminded of all Webb had done for him, Declan vowed to try harder to control himself, his ... impulses.
I know of no man more disciplined than me. He peered over at the monitor, saw the glowing Valkyrie on one of the bunks with her long blond hair spread out around her head. Like a halo.
I will crush this interest.
Eyes narrowed with hate, he rose and turned off the screen.
EIGHT
Magister Chase is making rounds today!" the shifter next door whispered urgently.
Regin rolled her eyes. "Oh, quick, lemme check my hair." Directly beside their cell's glass panel, she lay on her back with her legs stretched up against the metal wall, her arms folded behind her head. Whatever was the opposite of checking her hair, that was what she'd be doing.
From the bottom bunk, Natalya yawned, waking from a nap. In the back of the cell, Roomie Number Three banged his head against the wall. Or at least, against the wadded up jacket Natalya had jammed there.
Wham ... wham ... wham ...
And so goes week one in the House of Horrors. From her spot on the floor, Regin watched the procession of evil researchers and guards going about their daily evil business.
Warden Fegley, the bane of their existence, had only made the first of his thrice daily rounds. The self-important troll loved to taunt immortals, egging them on to violence, then laughing when security gassed their cells.
And now Chase was making an appearance. Goody.
"Still working out your escape plan?" Natalya asked. "There is a time element here, Valkyrie. I'm up for an examination soon. And you'll likely go before me since you were a high-priority capture."
Examination was a euphemism for vivisection. Where the subject was dissected while conscious. So far, they'd seen two victims brought by, their eyes glazed over, their chests carved open and held together with staples, like a flesh zipper.
Natalya had told her, "I heard that you experience pain like you've never known. They slice nerves or pluck at them just to see how you tick. You're awake when they crack open your chest to get at your heart. Afterward, they wire your ribs back together."
Unfortunately, Regin didn't have an escape plan yet. The only thing she knew for certain? The more she learned about Declan Chase, the more she wanted to take him out.
He truly was in charge of this entire hateful facility. All operations--from the experimentations to the torturous interrogations--were under his iron-fisted control. He himself was supposed to be a master at torture.
She studied her claws. Just thinking about the Blademan made them straighten and sharpen with aggression. For Aidan, they'd curled, aching to clutch his body close to hers.
"Care to crowd-source your plan?" Natalya asked. "Garner feedback? I actually have some experience with escapes."
"I'll let you know." Regin did have that one ace in the hole. Chase would soon be dead if he remembered her. But, hell, she could be vivisected or executed before he ever did.
Regin had begun to see why some of the prisoners were going crazy in here. Their third roomie wasn't the only prisoner who banged his head against the wall. Time passed at an agonizingly slow pace. With no shower available, she'd been eyeing the sink for a whore's bath. Her side
had fully healed, but her clothes were stiff with dried blood.
Each second, Regin's anger toward Chase escalated, her temper redlining toward DEFCON REGIN.
In the old language, Natalya said, "I recalled something I'd heard about you. Aren't you supposed to have a kiss that drugs men?"
"So everyone says." Regin didn't actually ... know. Aidan had sworn her lips were like a drug. And with each reincarnation, her kiss had triggered his memories. As soon as their lips touched, his past assailed him.
But the "drugging kiss" rep sounded cool, so Regin had run with it.
Natalya said, "You could kiss Fegley or Chase, then command him to free us!"
What was so bad? They were equally unappealing.
Regin's ears twitched. "Speak of one of the devils." Fegley's cheap orthopedic lifts were squeaking closer.
When the warden appeared outside their cell, he ogled Regin's bared midriff. Gross. Whenever men leered at her, Regin tended to leer back. She canted her head on the floor, turning it one way, then the other. "I finally understand what a dickie-do is. Your gut does stick out more than your dickie do."
Natalya guffawed, slapping a hand over her mouth.
His beady eyes slitted, and he walloped his nightstick against the glass directly beside Regin's head. Which made Roomie Number Three's tempo speed up. She clenched her teeth, wrestling with her temper.
"Your time's running out, Valkyrie." Fegley gave another wallop before he squeaked off.
Regin narrowed her eyes, watching him till he was out of sight. "One day I'm going to make that little piggy cry all the way home." With a sigh, she rose and crossed to the boy.
The only thing that broke up this prison monotony was studying their curious fellow inmate, trying to pinpoint what species he belonged to. So far, she'd determined only three things about him.
Since he didn't fit a single species' traits definitively, he must be a hybrid or halfling of some sort.
His gray athletic T-shirt indicated that he played football for the Harley High Tigers.
And he sure was cute.
He was over six feet tall, his build corded with muscle. His eyes were hazel with blue flecks, his brown hair thick and tousled.
The first time Regin had awkwardly patted his banging head to calm him, the fey had raised her brows. To which Regin had eloquently replied, "Oh, eat me."
That night Natalya had wiped the blood from his hair, then covered him with her jacket when he'd slept. After that, the two of them had started to view him as kind of a pet rock, almost like they were the de facto guardians of their very own sea monkey.
Kneeling before him, Regin murmured, "Don't let that Fegley worm get to you." Still staring ahead, the kid slowed his banging. "There's a good ... male of indeterminate species." Over her shoulder, Regin said, "We've got to come up with a name for him."
"Why don't we call him Tiger?" Natalya suggested.
"For his football team? Good idea."
"Not quite." At Regin's quirked brow, Natalya admitted, "He has a trouser tiger. A waistband topper. He might have no other bodily functions, but last night when he slept, he must've been dreaming really hard about cheerleaders."
"Nuh-uh."
Natalya raised her right hand. "Hand to goddess."
"Speaking of big cats. Cougar, he's a zygote."
"Can I help if I notice him? I haven't been around available males in eons."
"How's that?"
"I was taken hostage at the Battle of Seven Hills."
Regin snapped her fingers. "I remember now." She'd been pissed to miss that epic conflict between the fey and the centaurs. Nothing hurt Regin's feelings like not being invited to war. "We'd heard you died there."
Natalya shook her head. "Good old King Volos planned to ransom me, but failed to realize that I was ignoble and no one would pay. It took me a decade to escape."
"How'd you do it?"
"His nephew--and royal heir--took me out of my cell to make me his concubine. I acted receptive, right up until I ganked him with my poisonous claws, then decapitated him." Natalya said this dispassionately, but her eyes flickered. Normally her irises were the color of plums, but with emotion, veins of black forked out. "At last I'd escaped. Then less than a week later, I was captured by these wanks. Your takeaway from this story: I need to get laid." She cast a keen glance at the kid.
"He's like six hundred years younger than you are." Regin pointed a finger at the ceiling and declared, "I refuse to be the moral compass of our cell! Most weekends I have an intoxispell bong attached to my mouth like a respirator. I love scatological humor, and I list 'pranks involving nuclear waste' and 'making demons eat things' as my hobbies." Hubcaps, fire extinguishers, pizza boxes. Though she was friends with many of the demon species, she made the rest of them suffer.
"Valkyrie, if there was ever a cradle to be robbed ... Gods, just look at him."
Admittedly sigh-worthy. But Regin merely shrugged. "What are you going to do with him if he wakes? Make porn for the security cameras while I plug my ears and drone la-la-la? Besides, he's not fully immortal yet. You claw him and he's dead."
Natalya glared at her claws.
"Face it, Nat, this is one tiger who will never be jumping through your flaming hoop--"
Regin caught the sound of Chase's nearing footsteps. She recognized his long-legged stride, the echo of his heavy combat boots. "Here comes the Blademan. ..."
NINE
Is anything wrong, Magister?" Dixon asked, fawning expression in place as they moved down the corridor, assessing new prisoners.
"No." His tone was brusque, his answer a lie.
Declan was having a shite day, and it wasn't even noon.
Tests on the vampire's ring had revealed nothing--which made Lothaire's interrogation this afternoon even more critical.
Declan still hadn't crushed his unnerving fascination with the Valkyrie; her cell was coming up fast.
And he'd found out that yet another magister's prisoners were on the way to his facility, though Declan hadn't even surveyed the ones brought in while he'd been away hunting.
Dixon had offered to bring him up to date on the recent arrivals. He'd accepted because she'd brought him the additional doses and because he'd assumed--rightly--that she wouldn't dare broach the subject of them anytime soon.
Now as they passed cells newly filled with more creatures from "myth," she relayed details of their capture and backgrounds.
One cell contained Cerunnos, sentient creatures possessing the head of a ram and the body of a serpent. Another held a number of revenants--zombies controlled by some unseen Sorceri master.
Even a winged Vrekener--a horned demonic version of an angel--had been captured.
Declan grudgingly admitted that this wasn't a bad haul, though not nearly the caliber of his last one. Nor in the same league as my next will be. He'd been laying a trap for the most powerful immortal ever to live. A vampiric demon ...
When they passed the cell of Uilleam MacRieve, the Lykae said, "You're the magister?" His Scottish brogue was thick, his eyes blue with rage.
Declan merely stared at him. In less than half an hour, Dixon was scheduled to examine the were-wolf. She and her team would be doing the regular workup, but they'd also be testing a sonic weapon devised to immobilize a creature with his acute sense of hearing.
Turning strengths into weaknesses.
MacRieve bared his fangs. "When I get free from this place--"
Without a word, Declan continued on, ignoring him. If he had a quid for every time one of them said, "When I get free ..."
I'd be even wealthier than I currently am.
All these immortals smugly thought they'd escape soon, assuming that humans could never contain them. Yet in the centuries of the Order's history, none had escaped.
And no one would be breaking that perfect record under Declan's watch. He'd installed so many security fail-safes that commanders and other magisters mocked him. They called this Installation Overki
ll.
What they considered costly excess, he deemed standard precautions.
The metal walls of the cells were solid steel, three feet thick. The forward glass wall was made of the same material used for space shuttle windshields. If reentry into the earth's atmosphere couldn't crack that glass, then an immortal with a torque sure as hell couldn't.
But if one did breach the glass, then hydraulic bulkheads--barriers of six-foot-thick steel--would drop into place, sealing each of the three corridors. And once those bulkheads dropped, a self-destruct sequence would engage, overridden only by an officer.
Every contingency planned for, he mused, even as concerns about overcrowding weighed on him.
"You seem distracted," Dixon said. "Is it because of your upcoming interrogation?"
"Lothaire will be just one among many vampires," he replied coolly, belying his interest in this one. Though the Order knew more about their kind--their origins, weaknesses, any anomalous powers--than about any other species, aspects of Lothaire proved a mystery.
Certain vampires could harvest memories if they drank blood straight from the flesh. And if one killed as he fed, he could usurp a victim's physical and mystical strengths. Over time, the older ones grew maddened from so many memories, their irises reddening.
Lothaire had that harvesting ability and was one of the oldest vampires alive, yet his eyes hadn't turned fully red. Somehow he'd refrained from drinking as much as his brethren, shrewdly clinging to what little sanity he still possessed.
The Enemy of Old was an anomaly. Anomalies fascinated Declan.
Still the vampire had stolen enough memories to suffer bouts of instability and hallucinations. Declan had observed him slicing his black claws across his wrists to dine on his own blood as he conversed with himself. While at other times, his red eyes had seemed to burn with intelligence and cunning.
Declan wondered which side of Lothaire he'd encounter this afternoon.
In any event, he expected a worthy opponent. Natural born vampires like Lothaire were physically incapable of telling a lie, so they resorted to trickery and verbal misdirection; by all accounts, Lothaire was a master of deception.
No matter. I will best him. Just as I will best the Valkyrie in her interrogation tomorrow.
