Dark Desire: Dark Series 2

by Lauren Dawes

  A loaded silence filled the space, and the Vanir said, “Perhaps that will be Odin’s downfall, also.”

  No. Odin’s downfall will be at my hand, Darrion thought darkly.

  The screams and yells of celebration suddenly morphed into screams of terror. Both Darrion and Njord’s heads whipped around.

  No. It just couldn’t be.

  Darrion was a child again, cowering in the hidden room, watching Odin and his Valkyries cutting down his entire family in cold blood.

  It was happening again. Everything was the same as before.

  The beautiful dance of the Valkyries’ colored swords blurred through the air, connecting with the flesh of the Mares still too stunned to do anything but scream or stare. Darrion watched them all fall, one after another after another.

  When the last of them had been struck down, Njord jumped over the barrier. He ran at Odin with rage billowing from his frail body, the fury of his power blowing back his hair and beard, sending it into a tangled mess around his head. Darrion was fixed to the spot, his legs like lead, watching the showdown between perhaps two of the most powerful gods to have ever walked the Nine Worlds.

  “You’ve gone too far, Njord,” Odin snarled, striding forward until they were standing toe to toe, two of his Valkyries flanking him protectively. “Do you think you can just build an army against me?”

  “Any loyalty I felt towards you disappeared a long time ago.”

  Odin’s eyes darkened. “You have no dominion in any of the Nine Worlds anymore, Njord. You had to rely on these filthy dark elves.” The All-Father spat on the ground at the Vanir’s feet, a nasty sneer pulling up his upper lip. “And I won’t let you do this.”

  Suddenly, there was a strangled moan. Darrion’s hands balled into fists when he saw hot blood pour from Njord’s side, dripping down his leg and onto the sand-covered floor.

  Too shocked to move, Darrion watched Odin pull the spear from Njord’s body, reveling in the pain he was inflicting. Without another sound, Njord dropped to the ground.

  This act ignited Darrion’s rage. Watching the man he had come to think of as his second father die before his eyes—and at Odin’s hand once more—broke something in him.

  He thought he’d known the desire for revenge before. But now … now he knew what it really was. Darrion’s eyes burned into Odin as he stared down at the fallen Vanir. The All-Father’s head rose, his eyes meeting Darrion’s. He cocked his head to the side slightly before turning to the Valkyrie on his right. She held a black sword lightly in her palm, her ethereal features beautiful, her eyes frigid.

  Darrion knew what was to come. His fate would be that of all the other Mares lying dead in the sand. But he couldn’t allow that to happen. He was supposed to rise up and overcome this. He was a master. His life would not end here, on this day.

  He spun around, coming face to face with the Valkyrie with the black sword. His eyes settled on the thick scar running across the front of her throat. A warning growl bubbled up from her chest, her sword hand rising to strike. Time seemed to be reduced to nothing more than the breaths he drew into his lungs.

  As the blade came toward his neck he saw the cool indifference in the Valkyrie’s eyes. Whether he lived or died, it made no difference to her. His death was just another of the All-Father’s wishes to be fulfilled.

  The anger he had been carrying with him for years surged, and with it came clarity. He looked up to see the blade less than a quarter of an inch from his throat, and he did it—he did something he had been practicing with Njord, something that should not have been possible for another forty years.

  He faded.

  Leaving the guild house behind, Darrion disappeared into the darkness of the night, his fade taking him to the only other place he could think of.

  He returned home.

  Chapter 17

  Chicago …

  Locating Henry Craine’s offices had been surprisingly easy for Loki. Craine’s face was often featured in newspapers and a magazine called Business Review USA. It appeared that Craine was a legitimate businessman—owner and CEO of P&C Pharmaceuticals.

  Waiting until early afternoon, Loki went to the P&C Pharmaceuticals offices. Situated in downtown Chicago between a bank and a law firm, Craine’s building was a monument to wealth and social stature, made entirely of thick sheets of glass and metal. Loki waited across the street, watching the reflection of the dying sun move and wink across the front face of the building.

  A little before six, a Bentley pulled up to the curb. A second after that, a man dressed in a black suit left the building, two large men trailing after him. One of the large men got into the front seat while the other opened up the rear door. The man in the suit—Craine, Loki deduced, since he was the only suited man with bodyguards to have exited the building—slid inside the car, hidden from view by the dark tint on the windows. The second man stayed on the sidewalk and closed the door.

  The car left, swerving into traffic aggressively. The man left behind turned and entered the building once more. Loki stared after the Bentley, fading a few blocks at a time to keep up with it. After leaving the city, they stuck to a northern route, their final destination a place called Lake Forest—a leafy suburb with perfectly manicured lawns on the banks of Lake Michigan. The town car eventually pulled into a driveway and through a gate flanked by two large pillars, surrounded by black wrought-iron fences.

  The house itself was like nothing Loki had ever seen before. Made entirely out of stone, it was completely symmetrical, finished with white shutters and dormer windows. The car came to a stop at the top of the circular drive, and the large man got out and ran around to open up the door for his employer.

  Craine climbed out, his attention on the phone in his hand, and made his way to the front door of the house. Loki stayed hidden in the shadows of an oak tree on the lawn until the car pulled away. Then, with a single thought, he faded inside, where he could hear floorboards creaking overhead.

  Casually walking through the downstairs level of the house, Loki noticed the complete lack of anything personal. There were no family photos. There were no personal touches. It was entirely decorated in varying shades of beige, and Loki got the distinct impression that Craine hardly spent any time here.

  Wandering into the kitchen, Loki pulled open the top drawers on the island bench, looking for a weapon he could use.

  “Perfect,” he said when he found exactly what he was looking for.

  Pulling the meat cleaver from the drawer, he tested its edge, a smile forming when a slash of red welled easily on his thumb. Silently closing the drawer with his hip, Loki made his way to the stairs that would take him to the upper levels of the house, cleaver in hand. It was dark up there, except for a sliver of light coming from a bedroom at the end of the landing.

  Whistling a little tune, Loki wandered in that direction and nudged the door open with his foot. Light spilled out of the room, creating an arc of gold on the carpet around his feet and ankles. The sound of running water came from further inside, and Loki could see the bathroom door firmly shut.

  Flipping off the overhead light, Loki made himself comfortable on the sleek low-lying sofa in one corner of the room. The upholstery felt like silk velvet, and he knew it would hungrily drink up the blood that would soon be spilled there. After only moments of waiting, the water stopped and silence ensued until Loki saw the bathroom doorhandle turning.

  “What the fuck?” Craine said in a surprised voice, his hand reaching out to flip the switch beside the door. He had a towel wrapped around his hips, his upper body in good shape for a man his age. Loki had time to see a handful of scars on his arms, chest and torso—bullet and knife wounds, by the look of it—before the man saw Loki reclining on the sofa. He dropped the towel and reached for the gun sitting on the bedside table to his left.

  “Who the fuck are you?” Craine’s voice was strong—one that commanded Loki to answer. Loki got up, ignoring his question. The muzzle of the gun followed his m
ovements. “Stay right where you are,” Craine added, his two-handed grip steady.

  Loki put his hands up, still gripping the cleaver.

  “Drop the weapon.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” he drawled back.

  “Oh yeah? Well, I say it is, because I can put a bullet through your skull a hell of a lot faster than you can attack me with that cleaver.”

  Loki liked the sound of that challenge. “Are you sure about that?” he asked, cocking his head to the side.

  “You’re goddamn right,” the human retorted fiercely, disengaging the safety with his thumb. Loki took a step forward, but before his foot hit the floor again, the explosive crack of gunfire rang out in the room.

  It was too late.

  Loki was already behind Craine, one arm wrapped around his chest, the other pressing the cleaver into his carotid. “Engage the safety and drop your weapon,” Loki said. Craine’s breathing was harsh, uneven, but he did as he was told, letting the gun fall to the carpet.

  “Who are you?” Craine’s pulse was hammering. “Why are you doing this?”

  “It’s nothing personal, really,” Loki told him. “You have something I want.”

  “What? What do you want? Is it money? Drugs? I can give you both.”

  Loki tutted him. “You have something much more powerful in your possession. You just have no idea what it is.”

  With one swift movement, Loki sliced the blade across the front of his throat, the sharp edge biting into the skin, muscle and sinew. The sharpness of blood saturated the air. Craine gasped, the sound bubbling and forced as he gulped for breath. Loki let Craine’s body slide to the floor at his feet, the man’s hard, dark eyes staring up at him, his mouth moving but not making any sound.

  Loki dragged him over to the sofa and deposited him there, enjoying the way the cool fabric warmed with the color of his blood. More blood bubbled and foamed from his lips, but his eyes were wide and attached to Loki’s face.

  Picking up his feet, Loki arranged Craine’s body in just the right way. He smiled mildly down at the man, reaching out to brush some hair from his face.

  “Now, this won’t hurt at all,” he cooed softly, bringing the cleaver up to Craine’s face once more. He let the man see the blade already stained with his blood before beginning his work.

  Chapter 18

  Chicago …

  Galen’s phone was buzzing silently, the vibrations traveling up and down his leg. Dipping a hand inside his pocket, he retrieved the phone and answered the call.

  “Yeah?”

  “We need to talk,” Craine said abruptly, his voice sounding a little cooler than usual.

  “I’ll be there in half an hour,” Galen replied, pulling the phone away from his ear to hang up.

  “No!” Craine bellowed on the other end. “I need to see you now.”

  Galen frowned. It was unusual for Craine to make such a forceful demand. Normally, he’d work around Galen’s schedule, so something big must have been going down. He hung up without confirming he’d heard the order, sliding his phone back into his pocket.

  “What’s up?” Rhys asked, his concentration firmly on the blade he was oiling at the dining room table.

  “Craine wants to see me.”

  “What about?”

  Galen let out an annoyed grunt. “I don’t fucking know, but he sounded kind of pissy.”

  “Think it was about our last hit?”

  He thought about that. Galen hadn’t heard from Craine since leaving his office, even though he would have surely heard the news. But there had been no congratulations, no pats on the back for a job fucking well done.

  Nothing.

  Had Craine thought they’d gone too far? He didn’t think so. The mob boss was a tough mother-fucker who commanded ruthlessness from everyone lucky enough to find themselves in his employment.

  His and Rhys’s handiwork had made the national evening news. He’d seen the broadcast while pounding back a few beers at a local bar. Rhys had been in the bathroom getting his dick sucked.

  Galen stood up from the table, raising his arms above his head and stretching out the stiffening muscles in his back. “Stay here. I’ll go see what he wants.”

  Galen faded to the alleyway beside Craine’s downtown offices and stepped out onto the pristine sidewalk. The sun was trying to break through the clouds, but was losing the battle, casting a strange, filtered light over the city.

  Pushing into the building, Galen bypassed all the building’s security guards, heading straight for Craine’s goons, who were loitering near an elevator that had only one function—to take you to and from Craine’s top floor offices.

  “Craine wants to see me,” he muttered when asked what he was doing there.

  “I haven’t got you scheduled,” Goon One replied, looking down at a small notepad in his meaty fists, his fat fingers curled around the edges of the paper.

  “Are you sure it was today you were supposed to see Mr. Craine?” Goon Two asked.

  Galen stared at the man, his eyes telling him that he was fucking tired of the twenty-questions routine.

  “Give me a moment to call him,” Goon One said, pulling out a two-way radio and stepping away from their group. Galen kept his eyes on Goon Two. A few moments passed before Goon One reappeared.

  “He’s good to go.” He jabbed the elevator button with a thick finger. There was a pleasant ding and the doors slid open soundlessly.

  Galen stepped in, turned around to face the two men and flipped them off as the doors closed. “It was a real pleasure, boys.”

  Galen was just going to fade straight into the fucking building next time.

  The elevator car didn’t seem to move at all, but a few seconds later, the doors slid open on the top floor. Some more of Craine’s bodyguards were standing just outside the doors, and they patted Galen down after he’d pulled his machete out from the holster attached to his back.

  Another muscle-head opened the door, revealing Craine sitting behind his large desk, the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows, his top button undone. His dark eyes ran over Galen, who could sense there was something not quite right with his boss.

  “What did you want to see me about so urgently?” he asked, crossing his arms over his chest, feeling naked without his machete.

  “Sit down,” Craine ordered, indicating to a chair in front of Galen.

  Galen didn’t reply or comply—he just stayed where he was, staring at the Chicago mob boss. A small smile lifted the corner of Craine’s lips as he leaned back in his chair, assessing Galen.

  “I have another job for you.”

  “Okay.”

  “I need you to go to Boston.”

  A chill went down Galen’s spine. Boston was home to a lot of Aesir, but also the home of Darrion—the oldest and most ruthless of guild masters. If he found out that Galen was there, he’d be paying for it in blood—no dark elf waltzed into Darrion’s territory without signing their own death warrant.

  Galen let out a breath. “For any particular reason?”

  “Have you heard of a club called Odin’s Eye?” Craine asked, watching Galen closely.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”

  “I need you to go there and just check things out for me.”

  “Check things out?” Galen repeated, confused. Craine was never ambiguous about what he wanted done. If he wanted someone dead, he would say so in as few words as possible. If he wanted to send a message, he would say so. This vague request was setting off alarm bells for Galen.

  “Yes,” Craine said.

  Galen’s brow furrowed. “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m not asking you to understand,” Craine spat out. “I’m asking you to follow my orders and go to Boston. Go to Odin’s Eye and find out everything you can about the place. Get them to trust you. I don’t care how you do it. Twist the truth. Flat out lie. I don’t give a fuck, but make sure it happens.”

  Galen
was a hired killer, not a diplomat. “What makes you think I’m a good representative for you? Can’t you send Moretti?”

  Moretti was Craine’s lawyer, but also his captain. He was a snake—ruthless and cold-blooded both in and out of the courtroom—but he’d been born with a silver tongue, whereas Galen had been born with a blade in his hand.

  Craine’s mouth flexed up in the corners. “I need your particular services for this job.”

  “So, you want me to kill the owner? One of the employees?” Galen asked him, fishing for more information.

  “No, I think you’re a little more useful than that.” Craine leaned forward in his chair, resting his forearms on the blotter, pinning him with a hard and probing glare. “I know what you are, Galen.”

  The alarm bells were now clanging loudly. Galen jutted his chin forward slightly. “And what’s that?” he asked in a deadly drawl. He had no qualms about killing the man with his bare hands if he knew too much.

  “Morier.” The word was spoken quietly, a smug smile making itself at home on Craine’s lips.

  “Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Galen asked coolly.

  Craine waved his hand dismissively in front of him. “I’m not going to play these games with you, Walker.”

  It took Galen half a second to fade from his position behind the chair and reappear behind Craine, but somehow the guy had moved with inhuman speed. He was already out of his seat, his hand wrapping around Galen’s throat. Turning, Craine slammed Galen’s back onto the top of the desk—the furniture creaking loudly beneath him.

  Galen eyed the man above him, feeling the cold sting of metal against his temple.

  “Are you going to behave?” Craine asked calmly. Galen didn’t know how he’d moved so quickly, unless he was partaking of his products. That was a dumb fucking move, and he thought the mob boss would be a whole lot smarter than that.

  “Well?” Craine prompted.

  “Let me up,” Galen spat. For a heartbeat longer, the muzzle of the gun stayed where it was, until finally Craine pulled away, placing his piece on the desk beside Galen’s head and straightening his shirt.