Dreams of a Dark Warrior iad-11

by Kresley Cole

  With the click of a button, he could view—and hear—the occupants in any of the holding cells, could deploy security measures against them.

  From this console he could run the entire base. In fact, he often did.

  This military installation had once been used only to secure and interrogate prisoners. Now the facility also housed a research arm in a dedicated ward. A team of scientists lived on-site, investigating the immortals’ innate defenses, their physical strengths—and especially their weaknesses.

  Webb had turned over control of the base to Declan a decade ago. Since then, Declan’s life had fallen into a routine: work out in the morning to deaden his abnormal strength, oversee operations, interrogate some of the higher-priority captives.

  Now he reviewed several backlogged cases as he mindlessly ate a military MRE—and awaited a doctor’s house call.

  After finishing his meal, he pulled up the feed from cell seventy to front and center on the monitor. Fegley and a guard were just tossing the Valkyrie to the floor inside. She was still unconscious with her head bagged.

  “New roommate, fey,” the warden said to the female assassin already in the cell. “She’s a Valkyrie. Maybe this prisoner will actually talk to you.”

  The fey didn’t move to assist her, merely stared at Regin with cold indifference.

  Odd. From what he understood, the fey and Valkyrie were ancient allies. Of course, the assassin wasn’t completely fey.

  The other inmate—a teenaged halfling—continued banging his head against the wall. The boy hadn’t known he was a detrus, hadn’t known they’d existed, until he’d been dispatched here by one of the four other magisters. Apparently, he’d committed no crime other than setting his sights on the wrong girl—a magister’s daughter.

  Upon arriving here and seeing living, breathing monsters, the boy had gone nearly catatonic.

  Declan hadn’t even been eighteen when he’d faced these beings for the first time. He had survived the encounter.

  But not intact. …

  For long moments, Declan watched the even rise and fall of the Valkyrie’s chest. Her T-shirt was hiked up, revealing her flat belly and her wound. The skin there had already closed.

  Typical immortal resilience. How many times had he cursed it? With their ability to regenerate, they were nightmare adversaries.

  Not to mention when they possessed other powers. Like the vampires’ and demons’ teleporting or the witches’ spellcasting. Without the Order controlling their number, there’d be no stopping them.

  He drummed his fingers on his desk. The Valkyrie was fresh from ten murders, and still he was curious about her, wanting to know more than the limited details in her file.

  What is wrong with me? Of all the immortals he’d been sent to capture, Declan might hate her the most—for flaunting what she was, for being proud to have offed his men.

  And Declan wasn’t supposed to be curious; he was simply supposed to act—under orders. For nearly twenty years, he’d followed commands, had been the weapon the Order wielded.

  He wasn’t content in his life, but at least his sense of purpose warred with the strain. He owed everything to Webb—his life, his career, whatever sanity he still possessed.

  Someone buzzed his inner chambers. Only three people would dare: Calder Vincente, a former Ranger and his right-hand man, Webb on his infrequent visits, and Dr. Kelli Dixon, the physician in charge of prisoner research.

  He glanced at the video of the outer hallway. Dixon, with a familiar metal case in hand.

  Though he wanted only to observe the Valkyrie—to relish her reaction when she awakened and comprehended her position—he had business with the doctor. He donned his gloves, then buzzed her in.

  She entered, her smile fawning. Which he despised. Sometimes Dixon acted like a schoolgirl fan of his. He knew she was attracted to him, but then for some reason women usually were. The more coldly he treated them, the more they seemed to desire him.

  Yet even if there were any aspect about Dixon to tempt him—her looks were forgettable, her figure boardlike—she of all people should know why anything more was impossible.

  She waited for him to ask her to sit. Since the only place in this corner of his chambers was his bed, he didn’t.

  “How was your trip?”

  “The hunting was plentiful.”

  “That’s what we’ve heard.” She pushed her large glasses up on her nose, casting him an MD’s assessing glance. “You look exhausted. Were you able to sleep?”

  “I’ll catch up over the next week.” Normally, he slept just four hours a night, yet that got shaved down to two on these hunts. And he’d been gone for two weeks, completing lengthy preparations for his three captures.

  “How was your heart rate? Any palpitations? Any adverse effects of the medicine?” Dixon had been supplying him with his injections for more than a decade—ever since she’d begun giving Declan his yearly physicals.

  She’d been keeping his secrets and keeping him dosed for all that time.

  “No adverse effects. I’ve decided I need to double up.”

  She set the case on his console. Inside, he’d find two weeks’ worth of vials and syringes, a convenient doping kit. “Chase, what you’re injecting should knock out a horse. It’s going to start affecting your mind, with potentially permanent complications.”

  He’d long suspected that at some point, she’d begun to add an opiate to the mix, increasing it gradually. Now he felt certain of it. “Then I must be building up a tolerance, because it’s not working.”

  When capturing the vampire and even the Valkyrie, he’d suffered that familiar rage, and with it had come the customary physical symptoms.

  Thought left his brain, while his heart felt like it would explode. His muscles twitched and swelled as if they couldn’t handle all the blood pumping to them. He would experience a marked surge in strength and speed, yet afterward, he would be nearly feeble with exhaustion.

  Dixon squinted behind her glasses. “If I hadn’t tested you myself, I’d swear you were one of them.”

  “I am no bloody detrus.”

  She flinched at the coarse term.

  “And you did test me, finding nothing,” he reminded her. Though he did heal faster than most, his cells were still vulnerable to contagion and death. His skin scarred. His broken bones mended with calcium remodeling; an immortal’s bone would set as if never broken.

  Of course, he’d felt no need to tell her that he possessed animal-like senses, could see in the dark or hear a whisper from half a klick away. “Dixon, you’re the one who came to me with the idea of injections. Now you’re pulling back?”

  “I need to do new workups on you, run more tests,” she said. “Then we could finally get to the bottom of this.”

  His attention was back on the Valkyrie. “No more tests. You’ve subjects enough.” Besides, he feared he knew why his strength was burgeoning.

  Blood that wasn’t my own …

  “If we could find the root cause,” she said, “then we wouldn’t have to systemically suppress everything.”

  They’d gone over this before. In addition to deadening his abilities, his doses suppressed his emotions and any appetites, whether for food—or for sex.

  She couldn’t seem to believe that he was ecstatic about that particular side effect.

  “Chase, we have been friends for a decade.”

  Of a sort. I use you. She was his source, his dealer, providing him a bimonthly stash.

  From one drug to the next. Just a couple of quid’s worth, I’m beggin’. He shoved away the stray thought.

  She leaned against the console—in front of the screen. “You’re a male in your prime. Don’t you … miss it?”

  No. No, he didn’t. Even if he didn’t suffer that punishing anxiety with each sexual encounter, his body had been ruined.

  “Listen, Chase, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

  “Can it not wait until tomorrow?” Had the
Valkyrie stirred?

  “It will only take a second. It’s important to me. To us,” she added significantly.

  To us? He cast her a menacing look, the message clear—you do not want to fuck with me tonight.

  She blanched. “We c-can talk later, then, of course. I’ll let you get some rest.” She almost laid her hand on his shoulder, but a chilling glare made her recoil, backing to the door. “And I’ll have additional vials prepped for now, if you want to start doubling up. Just till I can formulate the stronger doses for you.”

  Be quick about it. “Very good, Doctor.”

  As the door closed behind her, he realized Dixon would not be easily dissuaded. The daft bitch thought she was in love with him. How could she want a man she innately feared?

  He exhaled with irritation. Damn it, he just wanted to watch his monitor, to see his new capture—

  The Valkyrie was rousing.

  Because her deadly cell mate was kicking her.

  FIVE

  Where am I?” Regin mumbled groggily, fighting to wake. Was somebody kicking her hip? “Who are you? Why’s it dark in here?”

  “Take the bag off your head, you tosser,” a female said in a British accent.

  Bag. Abduction. Not a dream. “Don’t kick me again,” Regin warned.

  The next time a boot connected with her hip, her hands shot out to seize it, twisting until the owner went spinning to the ground. The move had Regin wincing from the pain in her side, but she swiftly snatched the bag off her head as she labored to stand.

  Her eyes darted around. I’m in a cell? So this was the Order’s facility?

  A black-haired female was bounding back to her feet, her purplish eyes narrowed. She wore tight club shorts, a leather halter, fishnet stockings with ripped holes, and the stiletto boots Regin had already been acquainted with.

  “I recognize you,” Regin said. “Yeah, you’re Natalya the Shadow. Dark fey assassin.” She remembered the female’s onyx-colored lips and claws. Her poisonous claws. Rumor had it that her very blood was black.

  “And you’re the glowing Valkyrie.”

  They’d had a contentious relationship in the past. Regin and her sisters used to snicker and call Natalya the Killer Fairy. Until she’d flung poisoned knives at them. Now Regin defensively reached for her swords—

  “No swords for you.” Natalya swept back her mane of stick-straight jet hair and began stalking around her, claws bared.

  “And no daggers to throw for you.”

  As they circled each other, Regin flared her own claws as she tried to get her bearings.

  Within this small cell, there were two sets of bunks, a toilet, and a sink. Three of the walls were made of solid metal, while the front was a wall of thick glass. In the corner was a second inmate, a young male, maybe late teens. Don’t know what kind. He was knocking his head against the metal wall, his eyes glazed.

  Down a long corridor were even more cells.

  Attention back to Natalya. “Aren’t you s’posed to be dead?” Regin asked as they each assessed the other for weaknesses. Natalya’s gaze flickered over the remnants of her wound, Regin’s over the weird collar Natalya wore.

  Regin reached up to her neck. What the— I do too? She yanked on the metal band, but couldn’t break it.

  “Not dead,” Natalya said. “Just put on involuntary hiatus.”

  “So are we fighting again, or do you always kick people in greeting?”

  “Your m.o. is to attack first and ask questions later. Mine is the same. Seems to me that we don’t have that luxury if we’re going to escape this place.” She lowered her hands. “I think we might need to join forces.”

  Normally the fey and Valkyrie allied. But Natalya was a dark fey—half fey overlord, half demon slave. “I’ll agree to a truce, but I’ll escape this place with or without your help,” Regin said, lowering her hands as well.

  She didn’t need any dark-fey deadweight slowing her down. As soon as Regin knew the lay of the land, the schedules, and the security protocols, she’d devise something. “In any case, my sisters will come for me soon.”

  “That’s what everyone else keeps saying, but no one has ever mounted a rescue. We think this installation is hidden from the outside.”

  In a smug tone, Regin said, “Everyone else doesn’t have Nïx the Ever-Knowing in their corner.” Though Nïx might be the one who put me here!

  “Seems the most powerful oracle alive could have given you a heads-up about your capture.”

  “She does everything for a reason,” Regin answered truthfully. Her every stray glance or offbeat Nïxism could be pivotal in shaping the future. But deciphering these portents took more patience than Regin possessed.

  “I’ve got information you need,” Natalya said. “The immortals have a grapevine of gossip passed from cell to cell. In the two weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve learned much about this place. And about our captors. For instance, I know the magister took you down personally.”

  “Magister?”

  “Declan Chase. Tall, pale face, soulless eyes.”

  “Completely soulless.” This time. “How did you know?” Regin spied a camera above, placed to capture everything within. She’d bet he was watching her right now. Creepy.

  “Because he stabbed you in the side. He’s also known as the Blademan. Sometimes the Order catches us in sweeps, and sometimes they target us specifically. Appears that you were on the magister’s shopping list.”

  “And magister means in charge?” Great. Aidan was the bossman of these mortals—the ones insane enough to provoke immortals.

  “I believe a magister is one step below a commander.”

  Behind them, the young guy’s head banging increased tempo. “Uh, you wanna to tell me what his drama is?”

  He was handsome and dark-haired, built like an athlete, but he couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. He looked disconcertingly human, wearing some high-school football T-shirt, broken-in jeans, and weathered cowboy boots. “’Cause I can see this getting old in a hurry.” The hair on his right temple was matted with blood.

  “He’s been like this ever since they threw him in here four days ago. He doesn’t eat or drink, just stares and bangs.”

  “What is he?”

  “I can’t puzzle it out. He doesn’t have horns, pointed ears—or apparently a need to eat. He does have small fangs, but he also sports a tan line.”

  “You checked? Natalya, you durrrty bitch.”

  “Hey, I had to determine if he was a blood sucker or not. Now I don’t know what to think.”

  Doing her best to ignore the banging, Regin asked, “Who else have they taken prisoner?”

  “It’s a who’s-who list of the Lore.”

  Regin gave the fey the look her comment deserved. “As evidenced by the fact that I am here.”

  “Volós the centaur king and the Lykae Uilleam MacRieve have been here for a couple of weeks. They brought Carrow Graie in just before you.”

  Carrow? Regin was good friends with the witch. My man is responsible for all this?

  “They’ve got scads of ghouls, Wendigos, some high-powered Sorceri. Numerous succubae and vampires …”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Regin spied two guards dragging by a towering prisoner. She turned, gasped.

  Lothaire the Enemy of Old.

  The vampire was drugged, his head lolling, his pale blond hair stained with blood. His clothes were unmistakably moneyed—his muscular legs encased in leather pants, his shirt tailored to fit his lean build.

  But the shirt had a bloody slit in the side. Natalya murmured, “The Blademan took Lothaire down?”

  The Russian Horde vampire was diabolical. If these humans could capture and contain him …

  With difficulty, he raised his head, his hooded eyes flashing to Regin, his reddened irises darkening. Without a word, he bared bloody fangs at her.

  Once he and the guards passed, Regin bit out, “Those two with Lothaire … they’re truly human? I think
I finally understand what a mindfuck is.”

  “It’s the collars. The mortals call them torques. They weaken us, dim our powers through some mystical means.”

  Regin yanked at hers again. “So how do you get it off?”

  “They can’t be broken. Only the warden or magister can unlock them—with a thumbprint.”

  Oh, yeah, I’m screwed. “All righty, then. About that alliance.” Regin shot a look up at the camera, rubbing her hand over her nape. “How old are you?” she asked the fey.

  “Why?”

  “’Cause you could use a little work.” She switched to the old immortal language to say, “Because you might understand this tongue.”

  Natalya answered in the same, “I know it.”

  “Has there never been a successful escape?” Regin asked, but she feared she knew the answer. There was a reason Regin had never heard of the Order.

  “The fox shifter next door has been here for years—she hears everything, conversations even in other wards. No one has gotten free.”

  “There’s got to be a way.”

  “It’s said we’re on an island, far from any coast and surrounded by shark-filled waters. The cell is inescapable, the glass unbreakable. To have any chance at freedom, you’d have to get out of the cell first. They only take us out for three things—torture, experimentations, and executions.”

  “Mark my words, fey. I will escape this place. And if you get me up to speed and keep me there, I’ll take you with me.”

  Natalya tapped her chin with a black claw. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a card up your sleeve.”

  “Maybe I do.” Regin had knowledge of an upcoming event.

  Declan Chase’s imminent demise.

  SIX

  What the hell are they speaking?

  Declan had observed the Valkyrie and fey’s tense interaction with interest. He was fascinated with the hierarchies and alliances in the Lore, the usual predictability of their castes and classes.

  But once their initial discord had faded, they’d begun calmly speaking to each other in a different tongue, one that seemed familiar to Declan.