Dreams of a Dark Warrior

by Kresley Cole

  Feeling dead inside, he sat at his console, watching the feed of her cell for the last time.

  Such a fuckin' fool, Dekko. You knew they weren't to be trusted.

  He saw Webb shove her into the cell. She was still in that towel, her clothes bundled in her arms. She swung her head up to face the camera, eyes silvery.

  Declan ran his gloved fingers down the monitor over her image. Then he punched the screen.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I never expected this from you," Webb told him. His military bearing was even more pronounced tonight, though he used to relax around Declan. "Never from you, son."

  Webb's censure was killing him. Declan respected him more than any other man. It was bad enough that Declan had fucked up so completely, but for Webb to know about his transgression was too much.

  "Your clearance will be downgraded. Your print won't work on prisoners' bindings."

  Not mind-wiped? Not cast out?

  "And Fegley will take over your captures."

  "You're putting him in charge of Malkom Slaine?"

  "Fegley's loyal to this cause. Loyal to the bone."

  "He gets off on the power here."

  "As opposed to getting off on the inmates here?" Webb rubbed his hand over his face. "You know I look upon you as a son. And your work here isn't finished. I will try to smooth this over as best as I can."

  Fixing things for me yet again.

  "But, Declan, I have to know you can beat this obsession with the Valkyrie."

  "Consider it beaten." There was no gut-wrenching pain in his body, no urgency or crippling tension. Inside he felt cold as ash.

  It didn't matter whether Declan believed she had the power to destroy him. She had, which meant she'd been actively endeavoring to murder him. All the seduction, all the charm to win him over ... all bullshite.

  He'd been an easy mark, yearning for what she'd seemed to offer.

  And until he'd discovered the truth, he'd at last had the briefest taste of ... peace.

  Now he knew exactly what he was missing. Fuckin' hate her!

  "How can I trust that?" Webb demanded. "When you broke every regulation to see her repeatedly in your quarters? You of all people should know what they're capable of. Have you forgotten about your parents? How do you think they'd feel about your involvement with a female who's not human?"

  Declan stared straight ahead, berating himself for this fall far worse than Webb ever could.

  "It's us against them. There's no middle ground. You're either on our side or you align with the detrus that fed on your family. Fed on you. What's it to be, Declan?"

  "I'm loyal to the Order."

  "Good. Then you'll accompany Fegley in Slaine's capture, shadow the warden for once. Just as a pre-caution."

  The idea grated. "Why?"

  "Because you're the only one who could stop that demon if he got loose on our plane. After that, you'll take some time off base."

  "Now, sir?" Who would interrogate Slaine? Who would make sure his blood got destroyed so no one was ever tempted to miscreate another like him?

  Webb steepled his fingers, a gesture Declan now realized he'd emulated. He'd emulated much about the man. "I'd been coming to see you tonight to tell you some exciting news, the kind you crave most. But now I don't know if you deserve the mission. ..."

  Declan's body shot through with tension. "You found Neoptera." Their nests were rare; it'd been years since Declan had encountered any of their kind.

  "Yes. In southern Australia."

  Only a few hours away by chopper. This could be an opportunity to prove himself--and the chance to do what he loved above all things.

  Slaughtering Neoptera. Hatred so vicious it burns cold.

  "I need this, sir."

  "Yes." The man gazed at him shrewdly. "I think it's exactly what you need."

  The stench of rotting flesh engulfed Declan and his men as they closed in on an abandoned warehouse. The smell of old victims.

  Which meant that they'd found the Neo nest. At last.

  He and his team had dusted off directly after Slaine's successful capture, and for the better part of a week they'd hunted along the murky quays of southern Australia.

  He waved half his men toward the back of the building to block off the only other exit. They wore night-vision goggles and had their sidearms drawn. No TEP-Cs tonight--this was going to be a close-quarter bug hunt.

  Declan had unsheathed his sword and was ready to get his hands dirty. Ready to prove himself.

  He'd gotten through Slaine's capture without throttling Fegley--a feat in itself. Acting as a mere fail-safe in the background, Declan had done nothing, just watched another heading his mission.

  He'd even held his tongue as Fegley had taunted him. Apparently the warden had put two and two together: Declan's interest in the Valkyrie, followed by his downgraded clearance.

  "Golden boy Chase," he'd said. "Not so perfect after all. Got caught with his hand in the cookie jar."

  Declan shook away those thoughts, needing to stay focused. Already he was in strung-out shape. For days, he'd been unable--or unwilling--to sleep. To dream.

  When they reached the entrance, he motioned for his team to activate their goggles, then feigned doing so as well, though he'd never needed them.

  Inside the dark warehouse, the stench was pervasive. Four bodies lay tied, gagged, mutilated. An adult male and female and two children. A family.

  Memories threatened to swamp Declan--scenes from a time when he had been bound and tormented, knowing death was coming.

  Pleading for it.

  Seeing the victims' wounds made his own skin crawl. His raised scars grew hypersensitive, as if he could still feel the injuries that had wrought them--

  A male Neo swooped down on him, delivering a blow that hurtled him across the space. Four other creatures attacked as one.

  Declan tasted blood, ripped off his goggles. His heart began thundering in his ears, his muscles burgeoning.

  He spat a mouthful of blood, then charged into the fray.

  Gore splattered thickly over the walls as Declan stabbed the last Neo, pinning its powerful body to the ground.

  This one was the fourth he'd felled. His team had taken down the other.

  Looming over the creature, Declan pierced its thorax to immobilize it, then unhurriedly twisted his sword as it thrashed. Its compound eyes stared up at him with sentience. When it lashed out its prehensile tongue, Declan eagerly punished it with another onerous twist of the blade, unable to disguise his satisfaction.

  His men regarded him uneasily. They were hardened black-ops soldiers--mercenaries, assassins--and he was raising brows?

  Never had he experienced camaraderie with them. For them, the Order was a job. It was Declan's life.

  And they could never appreciate retribution like this--because they hadn't earned the right to it. ...

  In time, he slammed his boot down against the Neo's head, wrenching free his sword to strike the killing blow.

  But as he raised his weapon, Declan hesitated.

  For years, he'd dreaded the effects of Neo blood, had wondered endlessly why they'd forced him to drink of their dead.

  Now he realized they'd probably done it just to keep him conscious and alive for longer, nourishing him as they fed from fresh prey.

  There was a more likely explanation for Declan's abilities. Going down swinging ...

  Had he accepted that he was a berserker? No. But the mere possibility made Declan shake loose his old dread, made him accept that these beings would have no hold over his future.

  They would never take more from him than what he'd already yielded--days of his life, pieces of his flesh ...

  My family.

  With a savage yell, he swung, decapitating the creature. Done. It's done.

  Inhaling for calm, he ordered the team to do a cleanup, then trudged out into the humid night air to wipe down his sword.

  With no more leads in this city, they'd be returning to
the facility days early. Probably just as well; once this adrenaline rush waned, he'd be completely exhausted.

  As he gazed down the dimly-lit quay, he acknowledged that the Valkyrie had been right about one thing. He was never meant to run a facility, to torture day in and day out. He was a hunter through and through. He should be in the thick of the fray.

  And again, his thoughts returned to Regin.

  As far as she was concerned, he was dead inside. He didn't give a damn about the Valkyrie, didn't hate her, just felt numb when he thought of her.

  Aye, cold as ash.

  So why did I order Vincente to watch over her while I was gone?

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Declan arrived back at the base at six in the morning, limping, bleary-eyed with exhaustion, his fatigues blood-splattered.

  Returning "home" from battle, like in that dream of Aidan's.

  When the berserker had washed off the blood and gore, he'd found the Valkyrie waiting for him, needing him. Gazing up at him like he was a hero.

  --Her face lights up when I come into view.--

  Now, God help him, Declan's feet wanted to take him to her cell. Oh, aye, Dekko. So maybe she can try to finish you.

  Instead, he forced himself to stagger to his solitary, grim quarters. He just needed some sleep. Then he'd think more clearly.

  He gazed around his room--why had he never realized this was his own cell? A soulless hollow space. Just like his life.

  Here he had no sweet kiss and soft woman waiting for him. No family. Just emptiness.

  These goddamned detrus had more of a life than he did.

  He sank down in front of the console, fighting the overriding urge to see Regin. It'd been a week. Just a glimpse ...

  He pulled up the feed of her cell. She was asleep, curled on her side. She wore only her T-shirt and panties, with her hair spread over her shoulder.

  Achingly beautiful.

  He was expected to hate this female as much as the creatures he'd just hunted? To equate her kind with theirs? Impossible.

  He exhaled. Numbing drugs or not, his emotionless existence was clearly over. He did feel, and all too strongly.

  I want her so much. Even while she wants me dead.

  Why wouldn't she? How many times had he told her he would execute her, or that he took pleasure in hurting her?

  He couldn't begrudge her actions--she'd taken him at his word and attempted to protect herself, doing whatever it took not to be on the "roll call of dead immortals."

  All's fair in war. Best not take things personally. He was a big boy; if he could dish out the pain, he'd better be prepared to take it.

  No, if he was honest, he'd admit he'd been infuriated by his reaction: disappointment so deep it'd been like a physical blow.

  Declan wanted whatever he'd believed he could find with her. Craved it more than a full needle.

  A knock sounded on his door. Probably Dixon this early. Speaking of needles. Better have what I need, Doctor.

  He flipped off the screen, buzzed her in. She carried a case. Very good.

  When she saw him, her eyes widened behind her glasses. "Those hunts really take it out of you. No sleep?"

  "None." He'd been too busy searching--and too desperate not to dream of Regin.

  "I see. I'm sure you've had a lot on your mind as well."

  Maybe he was paranoid, but Dixon seemed to be acting strangely around him, more reserved. Probably figured out what had happened with Declan and the Valkyrie. If Fegley had, then Dixon sure as hell would.

  "I'll catch up on some sleep now," Declan told her, his eyes riveted to the case.

  "You'll need to. Webb scheduled you for Slaine's interrogation."

  "It hasn't been done?" Perhaps his commander's confidence wasn't totally gone.

  "Slaine was too injured from Fegley's ham-handed capture. The subject's been recovering for days."

  Declan had been at the capture, had seen the terrible power that demon had wielded. Though he'd never admit it to another, Declan couldn't have brought in Slaine uninjured either. "When is it scheduled?"

  "Eighteen hundred. Gives you twelve hours to rest up." She held up the case. "Your new, improved formulation should help. As you ordered, it's much stronger--you can go every other day at least."

  As soon as he had the case in hand, he parted his lips to dismiss her, but she merely said, "Get some rest," and left.

  Alone, he turned the monitor back on, staring at the Valkyrie. What wouldn't he give to sink down behind her, draw her close, and sleep like the dead?

  A dangerous thought. A nearly undeniable pull. I'll be taking my dose now, before I do something even more stupid.

  He opened the case, filled a syringe. His chest ached for something intangible; his vein swelled greedily. He gave in to at least that need, plunging his syringe.

  Ah, fuck me, that's strong. Like the old days.

  He collapsed back on the bed, the needle still in his arm. Chemicals rushed through his brain, his thoughts clouding. But his wasted mind remembered something he'd been too enraged to recall before.

  Right before Declan had tried to kiss Regin, she'd told him she couldn't do it. ...

  Blackness swallowed him.

  When Regin awoke that morning, the grapevine had news. Chase had just come back from some mission after disappearing for days.

  And she didn't know how she felt about his return.

  All week she'd been consumed by guilt, conflicted over her loyalties, pacing that cursed cell. Every time she railed at herself for not kissing Chase, she would remember the excitement of being with him, the pure sexual charge of his game. That night, for such a brief window, Regin had liked him.

  Until Webb had crashed the party.

  The man was obviously close to Chase, had called him son. In turn, Chase had gazed at the man with clear respect.

  But after Webb's interruption, Chase had been disgusted with Regin and so ashamed of what he'd done with her. She couldn't stop recalling the pain in his voice, the hurt in his blazing eyes.

  Now she awaited her "examination," knowing her time drew near. Chase had been enraged--he would never stall for her.

  Altered ...

  Every hour that passed was grueling. Natalya was regaling her with tales of old battles to keep her distracted, but time pressed heavily on Regin. She was continually lost in her own thoughts.

  One spot of good news in this ordeal? Carrow had somehow survived Oblivion and lured her target, Malkom Slaine, into the Order's trap. On the day of his arrival, Regin had seen the vampiric demon--arguably the biggest, meanest looking brute she'd ever beheld--dragged half-dead down the ward.

  Yet after all the witch had risked to meet her end of the bargain and save Ruby, Chase had broken his word; he hadn't freed them.

  And he'd called the witches treacherous? Bastard.

  But as far as Regin knew, Thad and MacRieve hadn't been singled out again--

  Gas hissed from above, clouds of it beginning to diffuse from the ceiling. Though she'd expected exactly this at any second, Regin stared up in disbelief.

  Natalya murmured, "I'm so sorry, Valkyrie."

  Regin shrieked with frustration, pounding the glass of her cell. She held her breath as long as she could. Fight it!

  Vision growing hazy, lids so heavy ... Both she and Natalya collapsed to the floor.

  When Regin woke, she was strapped to a table with bindings she couldn't break. Her claws were like razors, but she couldn't wield them.

  An IV snaked from Regin's arm; electrodes covered her skin. She craned her head around, saw Dixon and other scientists in white lab coats. In the corner, Fegley stood smirking.

  Chase wasn't here? Regin spied the camera above. Probably watching it from the comfort of his room. She refused to give him the show he expected, wouldn't scream or cry.

  He'd once told her that she would beg for mercy, but she'd be damned before she did. She was Reginleit the Radiant, an ageless daughter of gods.

 
"Shall we get started?" Dixon asked the others, her eyes glittering above her mask as if with fascination. "We have a lot to cover in a short amount of time."

  Bone saws and scalpels were lined up on a table. When Regin saw the shining metal of a chest cracker, her bravado faltered. She turned to the camera. "Chase, you have to remember me! You'll regret the living hell out of this if you let it happen!"

  One of the scientists casually remarked, "Commander Webb has expressed a particular interest in this one."

  Regin shrieked, "I'm going to eat Commander Webb's heart!" Her stress made the lights flare. All the technicians hunched down, their eyes darting.

  "Dr. Dixon, her pulse is two fifty and climbing."

  When Dixon raised a scalpel, Regin gazed at the camera. "I can withstand this, Chase. But can you?"

  TWENTY-NINE

  Declan woke to a pounding on his inner chamber door.

  Vincente, no doubt. He turned bleary eyes to the clock. It cannot say half past five. He'd slept almost twelve hours?

  Dreamless hours in a deep black void.

  He flushed with a queasy kind of shame to see the needle still in his arm. Plucking it out, he eased to his feet. Dizziness washed over him as he lurched toward the bathroom.

  A single dose had rocked him. Every other day at least.

  More pounding on the door.

  Declan yelled, "I'll be there in a goddamned minute."

  In the bathroom, he stopped and stared at the countertop where he'd touched the Valkyrie. With narrowed eyes, he recalled her telling him, "I can't do this."

  Hadn't she pulled back from him?

  Yet even if she'd decided not to go through with her plan, how much of that night was real? He wondered if she'd desired him or merely reacted to a man's touch. She'd said she hadn't been with a man in two centuries, but surely that had been one of her many lies. ...

  He faced the mirror, barely recognizing his reflec-tion. Pupils dilated, skin clammy. He turned away in disgust, then stepped into the shower stall.

  Under scalding water, he scrubbed his body, washing away all the traces of his hunt, of his twelve-hour stupor. He rolled his shoulders back, but couldn't work out the tension knotting there.

  When he hung his head under the spray, pressing his palms against the tile, his gaze fell on his track marks. As bad as I was in Belfast. Declan hadn't thought of himself as an addict since then, but now there was no denying it. He could shoot up for the rest of his life, chasing what he'd felt with the Valkyrie.