Dreams of a Dark Warrior iad-11

by Kresley Cole

  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.

  As they approached her cell, his skin pricked with awareness. For the most part Declan had ignored her—until earlier this morning when his curiosity had prevailed, and he’d pulled up her cell on the monitor.

  She’d been braiding her hair into haphazard plaits that he somehow found pleasing to the eye—though one would think she’d grow more proficient at braiding after a thousand years. When a fight had broken out in a cell down the ward, she’d bitten her knuckle, then cried out dramatically, “Can’t we all just get along?”

  Did she consider this some kind of game? Once Declan had finished with her tomorrow, she’d understand how dangerous her position was. …

  For now, seeing the Valkyrie in her cage, imprisoned right along with the other unnatural beings would remind him that she might be fair of face, but beneath the surface she was still one of them. A detrus.

  Her beauty just made her more dangerous.

  He’d been taught by the Order that they were abominations walking among humans, filled with untold malice toward mankind … a perversion of the natural order, spreading their deathless numbers uncontrollably … a plague upon man that must be eradicated. …

  Experience had taught him no differently.

  TEN

  When she heard Chase’s low voice in a clipped conversation as he approached, Regin resumed her customary spot on the floor.

  Footsteps closer … closer …

  And then he appeared—pale, angry, with his gaze fixed directly ahead. His pupils were dilated—everyone here knew he was on something. And he still sported those same black leather gloves. Rumor held that Chase hated to be touched, wore the gloves to avoid it. Freak.

  At his side was Dr. Dixon, the head researcher/dissector. Though Dixon wasn’t a pound-candidate per se—she had an athletic figure and even features—she was no looker either. She had lifeless brown hair, and her oversize glasses were the type that only a supremely confident woman could pull off.

  Chase seemed to be half-listening to the woman, answering in monosyllables—while Dixon was visibly lusting over him. The sick mortal two-bit.

  When they paused at a cell diagonal to Regin’s, she tried to determine what the woman saw in him.

  Regin supposed his thick coal-black hair was nice, and his features were attractive enough. He had a strong chin, defined jawline, and prominent cheekbones with shadowed hollows beneath them. His nose was thin and straight.

  He held his broad shoulders erect in a proud military posture, and his soldier garb was pleasingly butch—shined combat boots, a black crewneck pullover with shoulder patches, and camo pants that were fitted around his narrow hips and muscular legs.

  All in all, she might turn and check him out if he passed her on the street, but he was nothing like the other magnificent embodiments of Aidan. Not to mention his mental state.

  A drugged-up freak of a torture expert? Have at him, Dixon.

  In the old language, Natalya murmured, “He’s noticeably gazing away from you. Why do you think that is?”

  Regin had expected him to stare at her in confusion, to demonstrate that he’d begun to feel some pull toward her. Instead, he acted as if she didn’t exist.

  Which made her bristle. She was always the center of attention. Silent, lethal Lucia had once told her that she loved how Regin always stole the show—because that meant Lucia could go unnoticed in the shadows.

  It felt bizarre to be ignored in general, much less by an embodiment of Aidan—who used to stare at her so hard that he’d run into trees.

  Answering in the same, Regin said, “How should I know why Chase acts the way he does?”

  “Uh-huh.” Natalya clearly sensed that there was more to this than Regin was letting on. “You wouldn’t have noticed, of course, since you’re busy checking out all of him, right down to his tightly muscled back-side.”

  “You take that back, fairy.”

  “Ah, look at the magister’s hand. He just clenched and unclenched a fist. I wonder why.”

  “As if I care.” Finally a reaction!

  Christ, I can feel her gaze boring into my back.

  Awareness of the Valkyrie made him … restless. He had difficulty concentrating on anything Dixon was saying.

  Just to add to his frustration, the fey and the Valkyrie had begun speaking that language, the one he’d failed to get translated. Yet he knew they were talking about him.

  When he and the doctor moved on, the Valkyrie called out in English, “Yo, Dekko, who do I gotta blow around here to get a shower?”

  His shoulders stiffened, and he almost answered, “Fegley,” but somehow he stifled the retort and continued on—another victory for his iron will.

  But once clear of the Valkyrie’s cell, Declan found himself still preoccupied. With a feigned glance at his watch, he told the doctor, “We’ll review the rest of the prisoners later. Your appointment begins soon.”

  “They still need to transfer and prep the patient. Besides, we haven’t even gotten to the berserker yet.”

  “Berserker?” She’d piqued his curiosity. The Valkyrie and her sister had spoken of one that first night. The Order had little intel on the berserkers, because they were exceedingly rare and most were mortal.

  “Apparently, he was captured in the presence of other miscreats. He’s as strong as any of the prime males in the Lore, and he tests out as deathless.”

  “An immortal? Then he’s an anomaly. Let’s see him.”

  As they approached another crowded cell, one inmate caught his attention, a big bastard who stood apart from the others.

  When he met Declan’s gaze, his jaw slackened and his green irises flickered, as though a flashlight shone behind them.

  Why does he look at me like he knows me? The second prisoner to do so.

  And more, this male seemed familiar to him.

  No, no, Declan would never forget one of these beings. His heart began to pound—that wasn’t entirely true. Had this one been there the night Declan had been tortured? Come into his parents’ living room when he’d been unconsciou
s?

  Dixon frowned at the tension between them. “This is the berserker, Brandr.”

  “You don’t recognize me, do you?” the male asked. “Good. That means we still have time.” His phrasings were modern, but his accent had an odd resonance.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “If you’ve captured a Valkyrie named Regin, you must stay away from her.” His eyes flickered even more. This was obviously very important to him.

  So Brandr and the Valkyrie knew each other? Since berserkers were so rare, he might be the very one that Regin and Nïx had spoken of.

  The berserker Regin had longed for. Declan clenched his fists. “You think to order me?”

  “Heed my warning, Aidan.”

  Declan tensed at that name. “What did you call me?”

  “Your name, brother.”

  Declan turned to the wide-eyed doctor. “Put him in the schedule, Dixon. He’s a level-four candidate.”

  She gave him a surprised look. That meant a round of their harshest experiments, including vivisection.

  Brandr noticed the look. “What the hell are you doing, Aidan?”

  “Schedule it now.” When she scurried away, Declan approached the glass. “I’ve encountered many of your kind, and one thing remains the same, no matter what species or faction or breed. Deceit. You live and breathe trickery. I don’t know your aim—”

  “My aim is to escape this place with you and that glowing Valkyrie in tow.”

  “You think to take me as your hostage?”

  Shoulders back, the male said, “I think to take you as my kinsman.”

  “What the hell are you talking about—”

  “Fight!” someone down the ward yelled. Other inmates joined in, “Fight, fight!”

  ELEVEN

  One minute, Regin had been bathing at the sink; the next, she’d been abetting an escape attempt.

  She’d glanced up to see two guards dragging Uilleam MacRieve past their cell. The werewolf was supposed to be drugged, but he didn’t seem completely subdued. His head lolled, but not with each step. Her ears had twitched, and she’d known something was up.

  Straightaway, she’d called to the guards, “Oh, boys?” She’d sauntered to the glass in only her black lace bra and panties. “I need some assistance.” When they slowed, agog, she’d purred, “Can one of you help me find my orgasm?” Then she’d pivoted, presenting her admittedly mind-blowing ass. “Oh, look, clumsy me, I dropped something.” She bent over from the waist.

  With the guards distracted, MacRieve had shoved them away, hopping his cuffs to bring his bound hands in front of his body. Claws and fangs bared, he’d attacked.

  “Fight! Fight!” the inmates began yelling.

  Prisoners all along the ward banged on the glass walls, their shouts echoing down the corridor.

  “Zing! Kick their mortal asses, Scot!” Regin cried along with the rest of them. “Fuck ’em up!”

  Behind her, the kid banged his head faster, faster. Natalya leapt up to hold him still.

  With a howl, MacRieve slashed one guard’s jugular, then bit at the throat of the second one, blood dripping from his fangs.

  Suddenly, Chase stormed into the fray, bellowing as he tackled MacRieve. They wrestled over the floor, trading vicious blows.

  Normally the werewolf would thrash him—the Lykae were among the most powerful of all the sentient creatures—but MacRieve had been weakened by his torque.

  Still, Chase shouldn’t be winning that handily. He wasn’t merely subduing the wolf, he was beating the living hell out of him.

  Fighting like a berserker. A lean bear in winter.

  The way he moved …

  Right before her eyes, his muscles began to tighten and expand, his body growing larger, stretching his layers of black clothing taut. His massive gloved fists cracked bone each time they connected.

  When more guards arrived, they had to peel a bludgeoned MacRieve away from the magister’s assault.

  Once they’d taken the Lykae away, Chase rose, his big chest heaving. His normally pale face was flushed, making his gray irises more vivid. His hair was finally shoved out of his eyes to better reveal those chiseled features.

  At that moment, he was handsome, powerful, and so much like Aidan that she gasped. Just as with Aidan, she was uncontrollably attracted to him.

  An invisible force. Like two magnets.

  He swung his head around at her. Instead of looking surprised by her lack of clothing, his gaze raked over her heatedly, taking in every part of her.

  A look both scorching and possessive.

  A look that made her pulse race.

  His irises flickered. The color of storm clouds lit by lightning. As if unaware of what he was doing, he took two steps closer to her.

  She mirrored his action, then raised her hands to the glass. Her claws curled against the barrier between them, her breaths gone shallow.

  All else was forgotten. Declan Chase was forgotten. All she could see was Aidan.

  Want to be near him.

  But when she realized he would soon leave her behind, an old habit rose to the fore. In ancient Norse, the words tumbled out: “Take me with you, warrior.”

  Take her with him?

  At that instant, Declan was tempted to do just that.

  Christ almighty, her body.

  He exhaled a shaky breath at the sight of her dressed only in tight black lingerie. Her bra and panties were mere scraps of lace, displaying taut legs, a narrow waist, and curvy hips. High, plump breasts spilled out from the cups.

  Her glowing skin was damp and smooth.

  When she shivered and her nipples stiffened, he was rapt.

  Then he remembered what she was. Abomination. Enemy.

  Casting her a look of scorn, he abruptly turned away. He strode to his quarters with his fists balled and his mind in turmoil.

  Because he was hard.

  God preserve me. For her.

  Not possible. The medicine prevented him from getting aroused. Hadn’t he done two doses last night? And the night before that?

  Yet there was no denying the effect she’d had on him.

  Inside his room, he paced, fighting the urge to watch her on the screen. Abomination, enemy, his mind repeated over and over.

  He inhaled deeply—only to release a hoarse breath as the fabric of his pants rubbed his aching shaft.

  With a bitter curse he sat at his console and pulled up her cell. She was still staring at the glass, giving him a view of her from the back.

  Tight black lace against damp golden skin. Her pert arse was too generous to be covered by her small panties.

  He heard a groan, was shocked to realize the sound had come from him. His cock was now throbbing.

  It’d been so long since he’d been hard, longer still since he’d come. Enjoy it this once.

  While he might not miss sex, he damn sure missed the feel of spending hot seed from his body.

  Stroke himself off to a detrus?

  Declan was at risk of beguilement. Knew it. There’d been operatives who’d fallen for immortals—he’d always thought them stupid beyond measure. No miscreat was worth the consequences.

  Cast out.

  Never.

  He shot to his feet, pacing once more. Get control of yourself. He could beat this. No man possesses a stronger will than you, Dekko.

  He had work to do. His duty. There’d just been an escape attempt—with casualties—and he was due to interrogate Lothaire shortly.

  Once he’d broken the vampire, Declan would go for an extended run over the sizable island. He knew every part of it—the forests, the mountain caves, the rocky shores, knew where each incendiary bomb was located.

  Because I planted them all myself. Declan secretly considered it his own territory. Now he envisioned the miles he’d cover, the way he’d push his body to exhaustion. …

  Minutes ticked by. In time, he exhaled, confident that he’d regained control. The Valkyrie had sent him reeli
ng, but he’d found his footing once more.

  Go break the vampire.

  But first Declan needed to erase the security feed of his unexpected reaction to the Valkyrie. He never knew who was monitoring those videos. He pulled it up, scrutinizing their interaction, struggling to understand what power she had over him.

  He was about to delete the scene when he realized something that couldn’t be right.

  At the end, she hadn’t spoken to him in English—nor in that unknown language she spoke with the fey.

  This was something new. Yet he’d understood her.

  “I’m not going to lay off until you tell me,” Natalya said to Regin in the old language.

  For the last two hours she’d demanded to know why Chase’s eyes had changed, why he’d changed, in reaction to Regin. Unfortunately, the fey had witnessed the entire exchange as she’d tended the kid.

  Regin answered in the same tongue, “Just don’t tell anyone in the grapevine what you saw.”

  “Only if you let me in on what happened. Other-wise …”

  Regin glared. “Fine. After you vow to the Lore never to repeat what I’m about to tell you.”

  Once Natalya did, Regin outlined her and Aidan’s history, his past embodiments, his deaths. She finished with, “And now he’s reincarnated once more. This time … as Declan Chase.”

  Natalya gasped. “Then all you have to do is make Chase remember his past? Just get him alone so he can kiss you?”

  “Yeah. That’s all it ever takes.” For some reason, her kiss did a rewind on each reincarnation’s mind, sending him back to that one particular moment in Aidan’s life, just before he’d claimed her the first time.

  “No one keeps me from you,” he’d growl.

  And then nothing could.

  He would claim her in a berserkrage and die shortly after from some freak accident or assassination. Over these thousand years, that pattern had repeated itself again and again.

  Now, if she was with him when it happened, Regin could use his print to remove her torque and escape, leading others back here to free their allies.