Dark Desire: Dark Series 2

by Lauren Dawes

  “I wouldn’t talk about Bryn and the others. They’re too important to me.”

  Korvain kept up the threatening smile, but the hardness drained from his eyes. “That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” He looked at his watch and moved his big body away. “I have to go, but keep your ears open tonight. If you hear the name Darrion, I want a report as soon as I get back.”

  Mason let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. “You got it, but where are you going?”

  “I have to go get one of the other Valkyries from work. Bryn doesn’t want any of her girls traveling without muscle.”

  “Until Darrion is caught?” Mason asked, piecing the puzzle together all on his own. He had no fucking idea who Darrion was, but he was on Korvain’s shit list, which couldn’t have been a good place to be.

  “Yeah,” Korvain said. “Keep your ears and eyes sharp.”

  Mason looked out over the crowd. Every single set of eyes was on them. As Korvain strode from the room, those eyes followed him. When the door slammed shut behind him, the whole room seemed to breathe a sigh of relief.

  Yeah, Mason knew exactly how they felt.

  Chapter 5

  Chicago …

  Galen watched his partner finishing off their current hit in the reflection of the floor-to-ceiling plate glass windows of the high rise apartment block nestled in the Chicago skyline.

  The male cowering at the end of Rhys’s knife was making soft mewling sounds in the back of his throat. With a wicked grin, and his blue eyes flashing brilliant gold for a split second, Rhys plunged his knife into the human’s throat, the pitiful bleatings turning into his final gurgling breaths.

  Galen refocused his eyes onto the dark waters of Lake Michigan beyond the glass. Lights from the surrounding buildings bounced off the nearly flat surface, creating a kaleidoscope of blues, yellows and reds. It was almost serene, until he caught glimpses of the fresh blood splashed on the front of his shirt in his reflection.

  He shrugged.

  Occupational hazard.

  Galen turned back around to face Rhys, who was just getting to his feet, his hands and forearms slick with blood. Galen’s eyes drifted down to the corpse, a sadistic smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.

  Craine was going to be happy with them.

  “We’re done here,” he said. Rhys nodded once and faded from the room. Galen wandered over to the front door, stepping over the body casually, and unlocked it. He didn’t have to worry about the human authorities tracking them, recognizing them, although their crimes were already notorious.

  As Walkers, they would never be discovered and never be caught.

  As Craine’s wet men, they were untouchable.

  When Galen faded back to the apartment, he found Rhys at the kitchen sink, washing away the blood caking his skin. Galen didn’t know why their boss had wanted their latest target liquidated, but what Craine wanted, Craine got.

  And in all honesty, Galen didn’t give a fuck.

  He’d been born and bred for this shit. Killing. Blood. Torture. He thrived on the hunt, on the kill. Pulling his T-shirt over his head, Galen dumped it on the ground as he entered his bedroom.

  With blood still sticky on his stomach, he had a shower and wandered back into his room. Slipping his arms into a fresh shirt, he looked at his reflection in the mirror as he buttoned up the black silk. He double-checked he didn’t have any other blood left on him; nothing said serial murderer like blood spots on your neck, after all.

  Flashing himself a confident smile in the mirror, Galen returned to the kitchen, where he found Rhys in a fresh set of clothes.

  “You ready?” he asked. Rhys’s pale blue eyes glittered with excitement. Nothing got him hornier than killing. Galen almost felt sorry for the female that Rhys would decide he wanted that night. “Ice?”

  Without a word, Rhys faded from the kitchen. Galen took a moment to take stock of the apartment they shared. They were currently unaffiliated with the Chicago guild master, and that was the way they wanted it to stay. Of course, being owned by another Mare did have its advantages—safety, mostly—but that reason didn’t really seem to have much credence anymore.

  Before the Fall, if any Mare wasn’t connected to a guild, whether as a Walker or in any other position, they had more chance of being killed by Odin; the old adage of strength in numbers was definitely true. But since the Fall, since Odin had lost his power and his Valkyries, Shadow Walkers had been on their own, unless their term with their master happened to be a damn long one.

  Closing his eyes, Galen faded from the apartment in Chicago, rematerializing in the alleyway beside the bar, Ice. Running a hand through his hair, he stepped from the shadows and joined Rhys, who was waiting patiently—as always—against the brick wall. Indicating the way with his head, Galen led them inside the bar, stepping through the door and into the near-arctic environment the owner and proprietor, Skadi, liked to maintain.

  Towering over the high bar, the female Jotunn was serving mead made from the traditional recipes from the old country. Her ice-blonde hair was hanging in her silver-frosted eyes, her well-proportioned body moving with lithe grace. As the muscles in her upper arms and forearms moved, the ripple of the albino snakeskin tattoos that ran all over her body moved with them. She looked up when the door slammed behind Galen and Rhys, her bored expression unchanging.

  Galen’s eyes shifted around the bar, taking note of who was in the room. Rhys did the same, but when his body language changed—became tenser—Galen followed his gaze. It was stuck on Tyr sitting at the back of the room. The god’s whole body was slumped forward over the table, the stump where his right hand used to be resting beside his drink.

  This could be problematic. Rhys was generally all right—he still looked like a light elf—but Galen’s black hair gave away his dark elf heritage. The standing order to kill all dark elves hung perpetually over his head, and there were still some among the Aesir who had become bounty hunters just for the fun of it.

  But the more he studied the god, the more he realized that Tyr—the former god of war—would not give them any trouble. Rumor had it that after the Fall, Tyr got lost in human vices like alcohol and drugs. Although they didn’t really have the same negative effect on gods as they did humans, Galen could see how worn Tyr had become.

  Rhys grabbed them a table while Galen moved towards Skadi at the bar, acutely aware of how her eyes followed him.

  “Two tankards of ale,” Galen told the ice giant, leaning his forearms on the bar. He was only there for a second before cursing and stepping back, as a thirty-foot albino serpent slithered around his legs. If there was one thing Galen couldn’t stand, it was large snakes, and when it came to Skadi, everything she owned was big.

  It took a few minutes for the snake to inch past his feet, and by the time he stepped back up to the bar, two overflowing mugs had been set in front of him. Placing a couple of bills on the rough bar top, Galen took the drinks and made his way over to Rhys.

  He shivered when he sat down, catching the last two feet of the snake’s pale, thin tail slithering around the other end of the bar.

  “That fucking snake defies logic,” he muttered under his breath.

  “What?” Rhys asked, tipping back his tankard and draining half his beer.

  “Skadi keeps the temperature hovering near freezing in this damn place, yet that thing crawls around here like it’s got a goddamn rocket up its ass.”

  Rhys’s lips twitched—just about as close to a smile as the guy got—but he didn’t say anything more. Galen kept an eye on where the snake had disappeared around the bar while he took the first long drink from his ale. Rhys stood up a minute later, wandering over towards the bar.

  His mug was empty already.

  Fuck, the guy either needed to get flat-on-his-ass drunk or laid … and soon.

  Galen relaxed back into the booth and took another sip from his glass, his eyes moving around the outer perimeter. There were probably twenty o
r so gods and goddesses, giants and elves in the bar tonight.

  But he didn’t care about ninety-nine percent of them—all he was looking for was a female he and Rhys could use for a couple of hours—and then his eyes latched on to a goddess he hadn’t ever seen around before.

  She was standing by the jukebox, carefully selecting some music to play.

  Her corn-silk hair was curled, inching down to the small of her back, highlighting her small waist and large bust. From his current angle, Galen couldn’t see what color her eyes were, but if she were Aesirean like he thought she was, they were probably going to be blue.

  Rhys returned to the table, another drink in his hand. Galen pointed out the goddess to Rhys with a covert nod of his head in the direction of the jukebox. His best friend’s eyes zeroed in on the female, dragging down her body and lingering on her ass. His tongue swiped along his bottom lip.

  Ding, ding, ding.

  We have a winner.

  Galen stood up and wandered over to her, leaving the near-mute Rhys to sit back and watch the magic happen. As he got to within a few feet of her, his nostrils flared, taking in the delicate scent of rosewater. She looked up, startled, as he sidled up beside her.

  “Hi,” he said, holding her pale blue gaze.

  She smiled demurely and looked away for a moment, a blush sending a flush of color across her cheeks. “Hello,” she replied, keeping her eyes on the jukebox.

  “What’s your name, beautiful?” Taking her free hand, he brought it to his mouth, brushing his lips over her delicate knuckles. She wasn’t the usual type he’d go for. He preferred a woman who looked like she could take what he and Rhys dished out.

  She didn’t look like she could, but she was the only acceptable choice, the only unattached female in the place other than Skadi.

  “Amanea,” she replied, brushing some of her long hair back and sweeping it behind her ear … her slightly elongated ear. She was a light elf—not one of the Aesir as he’d thought.

  “Amanea,” he repeated thoughtfully. “Beautiful whisper.”

  Amanea’s eyes widened before she dropped her gaze again.

  “Come and have a drink with me and my friend,” Galen coaxed, pulling at her hand. The light elf looked over in Rhys’s direction and froze—a mouse ensnared in the hypnotic stare of a stalking cat.

  Leaning in, Galen whispered into her ear. “He’s harmless, I promise … besides, I can protect you.” Pulling back, he watched Amanea’s body relax slightly. With one more gentle tug, he had her following him back to the table. “What are you drinking?” he asked, still grasping her hand as she lowered herself down into one of the chairs.

  “Red wine?” she replied, her inflection making it more question than answer.

  “You got it. Be right back.”

  Flashing Rhys a behave, asshole look, he headed toward the bar, ordering a red wine for Amanea and another ale each for him and Rhys. He watched anxiously over his shoulder, checking to see whether Rhys had scared her off yet. He tended to do that.

  After what felt like a millennium, Galen returned to the table, only to find Rhys sitting there … alone.

  “What the fuck?” he growled, setting their drinks down roughly.

  “Some fucking light elf came over and collected her.”

  Galen inspected the bar, spotting her talking to another man. “Fuck,” he cursed sharply, sitting down and downing the wine before starting in on his drink.

  “There’ll be others,” Rhys drawled dryly in reply. Galen tried to ignore how his friend’s eyes morphed color as he said the words, but he knew better. Rhys couldn’t last much longer.

  Galen he kept his mouth shut, though, biting back the words. She was the only eligible female in the bar, and it was probably Rhys that had scared her away, or made her look like she needed rescuing. But Rhys scared a lot of people away. It was probably the way he stared at them like he wanted to slit their throats for no other reason than that they were breathing the same air as him, but it could also have been the fact that there was something hidden behind his eyes—something dangerous that made the hairs at the back of their necks prickle and their hearts race. If only they knew …

  Years ago—before the Fall—Galen had rescued Rhys from a near fatal beating by some Aesirean fuckers who had decided that his mixed blood was a good enough reason to attack and nearly kill him through some cruel and unusual torture. Rhys had sworn his life to Galen that day, but Galen wasn’t into the whole servitude bullshit. Still, they had been inseparable since then.

  Downing the rest of his drink, Galen let out a heavy sigh. It looked like neither of them was going to get their cock sucked unless they picked up a pro. Galen looked at his watch. There was still time to find a woman, but by the flashes of gold in Rhys’s eyes, they had to go find one fucking fast.

  Indicating it was time to leave, they both stood up and moved towards the door. When a low snarl vibrated from Rhys’s throat, Galen’s eyes cut to his face, noting the way his best friend’s eyes were staying solid yellow for longer now.

  They had to find a way for him to expend his volatile energy and soon.

  Chapter 6

  As Loki listened to the Aesirean prattle on about the All-Father, he was smugly pleased that at least some things hadn’t changed. The gods still liked to gossip, and Odin was still their favorite topic of conversation.

  Leaning casually against the hot dog cart the guy was working from, Loki asked, “So you heard he’s in Chicago?” He had changed his appearance slightly just in case anyone recognized him.

  The god loaded a dog with relish and handed it to the human waiting in line. “Yeah. That’s what I heard.”

  “Why would he go there?” Loki took his first bite of the hot dog in his hand, finding the flavors and sensations unexpectedly pleasant. He chewed thoughtfully, waiting for the Aesir to answer.

  Running the sleeve of his shirt underneath his nose, the god shrugged and looked out at the unseasonably sunny Boston day. “He was only staying here because Frigg was here. But now that she’s dead, why would he hang around?”

  “His Valkyries?” Loki quizzed.

  The god barked out a laugh. “Odin hasn’t been in Bryn’s good graces for a very long time. I doubt he’d hang around for them.”

  Loki thought about that for a moment, but dismissed the idea. Odin would never leave Bryn unprotected—not when she was the key to his very survival. But that little titbit wasn’t public knowledge. If the All-Father were in Chicago, it wouldn’t be for an extended stay. He would come back to Boston … unless he had a very good reason not to.

  “So what’s in Chicago?” Loki asked casually, wiping his fingers with a paper napkin and dumping his rubbish into the small bin attached to the cart.

  “His son is,” the god replied, taking out a warmed bun for his next customer. Turning to Loki he added, “Thor is there.”

  Loki let the words sink in. He couldn’t believe how single-minded he’d been. He’d been going after Odin by taking away all those he loved. His wife was gone. Six out of ten of his Valkyries were dead. But Thor was still alive. How could he have overlooked the god of thunder? Thor had been present at Loki’s imprisonment, had taken pleasure in his pain, had laughed along with his father as Loki writhed in agony.

  Contemplating the information carefully, Loki walked away from the Aesir, already planning how he could possibly use Thor against the All-Father. Loki still wanted Bryn first, especially after she had escaped him last time. But if he should fail in a second attempt, the All-Father’s most favored son would be the perfect substitute.

  Knowing that preparedness was the key to a well-executed plan, Loki faded away from Boston Common. The vibration ran through his whole body for mere seconds, and then he was standing in the vast, modern, steel-and-glass city of Chicago. Not knowing where to begin, Loki started walking, keeping his eyes and senses open for anything that might lead him to Thor or Odin.

  It wasn’t until nightfall that he stumbled acr
oss a building that had been shielded from human sight with very old Vanir magic. Standing across the road, hidden in shadows, Loki watched light elves and giants, Aesirean gods and dwarves enter the establishment, all without drawing any attention from the humans sharing the sidewalk with them.

  Changing his features subtly, Loki ensured he looked like a demigod of some description by changing his green eyes to brown, and lengthening and darkening his blond hair until it brushed against his shoulders.

  Satisfied with his ubiquitous appearance, Loki crossed the road and pushed open the door. Stepping into Ice was like stepping back into the past. The bar was run by the very ice giant who had helped Odin imprison Loki all those years ago. It was her snake that had been used to torture and torment him while his mind had rotted away in that cave. It had been her who walked away, mourning the loss of her serpent rather than the eternity of pain and agony she had condemned him to.

  For an ice giant, she was beautiful, but the last time Loki had seen her, she had not had the albino serpent tattoos covering both her arms and disappearing into the short sleeves of her shirt.

  It appeared that time had changed her, too.

  Loki walked further inside, taking a seat near the back of the bar, making sure he could see the entire floor and all its occupants. All the races of the Nine Worlds were there, talking and drinking together. On occasion, he saw one of the Aesir he had known before his imprisonment, but it was one of the gods that caught and held his attention longer than any other.

  Tyr was drowning himself in a tankard of ale. Seeing his stump lying motionless on the table beside his cup made Loki smile. He remembered the day Tyr had lost his hand very well indeed …

  After observing everything, and taking note of everyone’s location in the building, Loki made his way over to a group of gods who were playing pool on the opposite side of the bar. There were four of them altogether, and from what he could tell, they were all Aesireans. Loki stopped a dozen feet from the table, his shoulder resting against the wall casually.