by Kresley Cole
When the rumbling strengthened, Natalya said, “If a mountain keeps rising, doesn’t that mean the surrounding land will start falling away?”
Regin nodded. “Yep. And we’re on the surrounding land.” Smoke began oozing down the corridor. “Looks like Emberine got loose.” Could Carrow escape those two with a little girl in tow?
Again and again, glass shattered as more creatures were freed.
“La Dorada’s coming,” the shifter whispered. “Ah, gods, she’s coming.”
Seconds passed, then … La Dorada skulked into view. She was half-mummified, but sodden. Gooey.
Regin let out a low whistle. “The Mummy Returns meets Dingoes Ate My Face.”
Strips of rotting gauze clung to the sorceress’s body. Her face was slimy with pus and appeared to be missing a couple of chunks, as well as an eye.
Surrounding her like a pack of guard dogs was a dozen Wendigos. They were as contagious as ghouls, but much faster and smarter. Of course, the average loogie was smarter than a ghoul.
“Look at the gold,” Natalya breathed in awe.
Dorada wore cool gold pieces—a golden crown on her lumpy head and an elaborate breastplate over a surprisingly intact rack. With each of the sorceress’s steps, gold flakes drifted down.
“She’s altogether ooky. But I’m not picky.” Regin banged the bottom of her fist against the glass, ignoring the pain radiating out from her chest. “Yo, beautiful. Come pop this collar off me.”
Natalya hissed, “Are you mad?”
“What’s she gonna do? Vivisect me? Imprison me? We’ve got a pact to fulfill, remember?” To Dorada, she cried, “Seriously, sweetheart, shake that mummified ass over here.” Regin kicked the glass. “Lemme the fuck out—”
La Dorada swung her head around, peering at Regin with her one eye.
“Okay. That’s freaky. Lookit, Gollum, if you spring me, I’ll help you find your Precious.”
Regin could have sworn the sorceress’s mouth gaped with a toothless smile. Then she slinked away.
“No, no, no!” Regin cried. “I’m about to do evil! Help a bitch out!”
But she was gone, leaving Regin and Natalya trapped like sitting ducks, still wearing their torques, while Pravus soldiers began prowling the ward. Once they’d eliminated the humans, they’d be coming for their true adversaries.
They’ll come prowling for us.
As Declan marched out of his sanctum into the sealed-off research ward, he swept an assessing glance over the area.
Down the corridor in front of the multi-ton bulkhead, three dozen soldiers had set up a secondary barricade, just as he’d instructed them in repeated exercises.
They’d improvised with lighting, illuminating the ward with randomly placed outdoor spotlights and chemical glow sticks.
At this end, farthest from the bulkhead, dozens of terrified scientists and other support staff huddled. They’d evacuated here as per the contingency plan he’d made them drill again and again. He dimly noted that they looked relieved to have spotted him.
Dixon wasn’t among the evacuees. Had she been, he would’ve tossed her to the fucking wolves.
Vincente was absent, the loyal guard who’d apparently been trying to tell Declan about Regin.
But Fegley was here. And I don’t have time to kill him right now.
The need to defend his base burned within Declan. My land. My territory. He ruthlessly drove thoughts of Regin—and of Webb’s revelation—from his mind. If he didn’t secure the facility, all would be lost. Including her.
Declan pointed at Fegley and said simply, “You’re as good as dead.” The man cringed.
At the barricade, Declan called for the senior officer. “Where are the breaches?”
“In ward two, Magister. Soldiers trapped behind the bulkhead radioed that there are at least twenty confirmed cell breaches. There’s some kind of foreign miscreat in there, a being from the outside. Nothing can stop her. None of our weapons. She’s somehow removing the torques from specific prisoners.”
Impossible. But then, how the hell had she even gotten in here? “Which prisoners?”
“The most violent ones, sir.”
Regin was in that ward. “Why haven’t the soldiers gassed the place?” Each guard carried canisters of nerve gas and a breathing apparatus as part of his standard gear.
When the radio crackled with hoarse yells, Declan snatched it up, ordering, “Deploy your canisters. Now!” No response. “Confirm the order and carry it out!”
“Sir, the Sorceri … raising a … and fire …” In the background, screams of terror rang out. Glass cell walls continued to shatter.
“Goddamn it, gas them!” Gurgling sounds followed. Then utter chaos.
The guards flanking Declan went bug-eyed. The floor began vibrating. Then came a sound Declan couldn’t believe.
The steel cell walls in ward two were groaning as they … crumpled.
Just then some force battered their bulkhead, denting the six-foot-thick metal.
The civilians screamed; Declan clenched his slackened jaw, then ordered, “If it goes, fire at will.” The guards clutched their weapons—MK 17s, TEP-Cs, grenade launchers. “Steady …” He cocked and aimed his own rifle.
These were hardened soldiers, handpicked by the Order, but they knew what awaited them if they fell into the hands of these enemies.
A fate worse than death.
Another pounding of unimaginable power. Then another. “Steady …”
The bulkhead flew open in a rush of sparks, like a door kicked in. A shock wave of air and sound clouded his vision, deafening him. Dust and smoke every-where.
Through the murky gap left behind, winged demons soared above. Cerunnos slithered in.
“Hold them back!” Declan yelled, firing at the demons, burning through a clip in seconds. He grounded four of them, then stormed to the opening to meet the threat head-on. A volley of bullets whizzed past his head as his men covered him.
Declan fought his way past the onslaught, but as soon as he caught his first look at the facility, his breath left him. Dozens of prisoners ran free. The bulkhead to ward two had also been breached, and a … a mountain was rising within.
Two Sorceri females stood nearby; Declan recognized Portia and Emberine—the Queen of Stone and the Queen of Flames. Neither wore a torque, which meant both possessed their full ungodly powers.
With a wave of her hand, Portia continued to draw up that colossal pediment of rock.
Emberine was beside her, incinerating any soldiers who’d had been caught outside the research ward. One shot to the chest rendered their bodies to ash.
If that stone rose any higher, the entire facility would be demolished. Declan wouldn’t be able to save anyone on this island from the self-destruct. He wouldn’t be able to save Regin.
Regin. Declan finally understood what his victims had felt when he’d tortured their mates.
A madness to protect.
Have to eliminate the Sorceri. He yelled once more to the guards, “Hold the line!” then charged straight into hell.
As he tore through the riot, he dimly realized that the creatures without their torques were uniformly those from the Pravus alliance.
That “being” had come from the outside to free only one army.
Now the Pravus preyed on their weakened Vertas enemies.
Regin was injured and likely still wore her torque. If the glass of her cell shattered, she’d be left unprotected. As a Vertas, she’d be targeted. …
Finally he garnered enough room to raise his rifle and take a bead on Portia. He squeezed the trigger and held it, but before the spray of bullets could hit the female, Emberine melted them in midair.
Then the Queen of Flames turned on him, eyes filled with malice. A fireball blazed in her raised palm. He leveled his aim at her, emptying a clip, but she’d already hurled the ball at him with the speed of a rocket.
A kill shot.
It took him right in the chest, exploding him across the facil
ity.
THIRTY-TWO
Dorada is in the building. Lothaire mused. Here, just as he’d predicted.
His nemesis Nïx might have her foresight, but Lothaire had insight. He could calculate what Loreans would do with exceptional accuracy.
The bitch had come for her ring—able to track whoever had touched it last over the entire earth. But she was also here for retribution. And she wouldn’t give a damn that he’d been working for her side in the war between good and evil for millennia.
“I told you we’d escape soon,” Lothaire grated to the demon male across the corridor. Since Malkom Slaine’s arrival, Lothaire had tried coaxing him into an allegiance, patiently explaining the value of allies in the Lore.
He himself had made pacts with all kinds—whatever the Endgame required. In ages past, he’d fought side by side with a Valkyrie when all he’d wanted to do was torment her. He’d aligned with various demonarchies that thought he was the devil incarnate.
He’d even quelled his abundant pride and sworn fealty to a vampire king—one who sat upon Lothaire’s own throne. …
Yet though Slaine was part vampire, he hated all “leeches.” He just sat there obsessing about his witch, plotting his revenge, refusing to ally with a red-eyed vampire.
Though I know everything about this world, and Slaine knows so little.
Though he was a slave in Oblivion, and I’m soon to reclaim my kingdom.
The ground quaked beneath him. So Portia was raising a mountain? Then the whispers were true—Dorada was removing the prisoners’ torques.
At least from the evil ones. He knew he’d receive no such boon from her.
Twisting metal clanged, echoing down the hall. The walls began to warp. The glass of his cell couldn’t take much more of this pressure.
Perhaps escape could be had before Dorada reached him?
No. She neared even now.
He’d brought her down upon himself recklessly, had known better. But he would have done anything for that ring—the Endgame demanded it—and he’d never imagined he’d have to contend with her in this state.
“One way or another, this ends tonight.” Lothaire paced, as ready for battle as he could be, considering he still wore a torque—and was starving.
For weeks, he’d been denied blood, and Chase’s torture had left him compromised, his skin still missing in places.
But at least that bastard had given him salt. Lothaire filled his pockets with it.
Everyone in the Lore knew that a Wendigo’s contagious bite or scratch would transform even an immortal into one of its kind. But they didn’t know much else because few survived an encounter with them intact.
Yet centuries ago, one wizard had discovered what salt did to those creatures—a wizard who’d died under Lothaire’s fangs, unwillingly yielding his memories and knowledge. …
“I am ready to have done, Dorada!” Lothaire yelled. “Face me, crone!”
Seconds later, he spotted her just outside Slaine’s cell, a walking corpse, surrounded by a frothing pack of Wendigos.
She was even more hideous than the last time he’d seen her mere weeks ago. His eyes narrowed. Though she should be invincible, scorch marks branded her decomposed skin. The mortals had shot—and wounded—her.
Why hadn’t she regenerated to her full power before she’d attacked? Too anxious to get to me?
Wait, Dorada was removing Slaine’s collar? Lothaire hadn’t thought Slaine was particularly evil. And he was usually right about these things.
Who am I kidding? I’m always right.
Then Emberine appeared and shattered the demon’s cell wall with her fire. Slaine the slave, freed of his torque and his jail? The injustice of it all.
Dorada swished to a stop in front of Lothaire’s cell and shrieked, “RIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG!”
“You know I don’t have your ring, suka.”
La Dorada raised her withered arm. In a wave, the Wendigos rushed the glass of his cell. As they repeatedly barreled against it, blood and contagious saliva smeared the fractured glass, their claws clattering down it. …
The barrier shattered. The stench of them—of her—nearly felled him.
But as the creatures charged, Lothaire dug into his pockets, tossing salt. The granules burned their gaunt skin, shriveling it like a leech’s.
He aimed for their faces to blind them. Putrid flesh gave up smoke, yet they kept advancing through that haze.
He dodged their knifelike claws, swinging his fists to send them flying. But they recouped in turns, continuing their attack.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Slaine climbing from the wreckage of his cell. As Lothaire clashed with the Wendigos, he bit out, “Slaine? A hand here.”
Dorada swung her head at the demon to shriek, “RIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG?”
Slaine strode away, calling over his shoulder, “Where’s your allegiance now, vampire?”
If you’re not with me, you’re against me, Lothaire thought as he repelled another charge. You’ve erred for ill. …
Again and again, he cast the rabid creatures out. But the quaking beneath his feet intensified, keeping him off balance. The roof began to sag above him as the facility threatened to collapse. He waged a losing battle.
Suddenly, the cement beneath the Wendigos fractured, the jagged line widening—
In a deafening rush, the ground opened up, creating a yawning ravine; five Wendigos plunged into that blackness. The others hung on to the edge, scrabbling for the steel rebar that jutted from broken concrete.
Under the immense pressure, the two rock faces of that new crevasse jerked forward and back as if the earth breathed.
Lothaire rammed the heel of his boot atop the Wendigos’ elongated fingers, dropping them one by one.
Across the divide, La Dorada shrieked at him, her expression promising pain.
“Come and finish me, then!” he bellowed, but his muscles were shuddering, his body too weakened from the Wendigos. … So this was how it would end?
Dorada would keep him from what he desired so violently? The centuries of toil, the sacrifice.
At the thought, fury spiked within him, coursing through his ancient royal blood. Think of her. So young, beautiful. Think of those innocent eyes gazing up at me with delightful fear.
A red haze covered his vision. The ground quaked once more. The crone teetered at the precipice.
With the last of his strength, he sprinted to the edge and vaulted to a ledge of rock just beneath her. His hand snaked out to seize her ankle. He gave a vicious yell and yanked.
La Dorada screamed as she crashed to her back.
Holding on by the fingertips of one hand, he pulled against her mighty strength … dragging her …
She dropped over the edge. But as she fell, she caught his right leg with her claws, dangling below him.
“Join your dogs, bitch!” He slammed his left boot into her hideous face, crushing one side. Another kick took her sole eye. A last kick—
Dorada plummeted, her fading scream carried up for long moments. … Then silence from below, what had to be hundreds of feet down.
His relief was short-lived. The rock face began to grind forward, closing the distance between the sides. A stone mouth with rebar teeth.
Sweat broke out on his body, dripping into his eyes. He reached for the steel rods above him … stretching … higher still …
Missed.
Again, he tried to climb. His muscles were too deadened, starved for blood. The urge to release his grip grew undeniable.
One finger slipped. Then another. …
THIRTY-THREE
Battles. Everywhere. Directly in front of Regin and Natalya. But just out of reach.
As the mountain continued to rise, the entire building wobbled. The glass of other cells succumbed to the pressure, but theirs held strong.
All she and the fey could do was watch the havoc outside their cell. Though all the creatures in the Vertas had their torques, none of the Pravus di
d.
Regin laid her palms against the glass. “Put me in, Coach …”
“I’m bloody ready to play,” Natalya finished.
Packs of shifters wrangled, the Vertas mammal shifters versus the Pravus amphibious ones.
Winged demons skulked through the ward, dragging humans into dark corners to share for sex. Horde vampires fed from the mortals at the same time.Volós thundered up and down the corridor, his long mane of hair tied back in a queue, his hooves matted with gristle.
Mere feet away, five starving succubae waylaid Uilleam MacRieve. The females were torqueless, which meant they were probably a hundred times stronger than the Lykae would be right now. They attacked as one, launching him directly into the glass wall of Regin’s cell.
She cried, “Break the glass, MacRieve!”
His fists were flying, but the females were dusting off his blows. “Wee bit busy, Valkyrie!” He fought as if his life depended on it, roaring and flailing.
Regin murmured to Natalya, “Most guys aren’t usually too keen on getting away.” The succubae had ways to make males crazed with lust. “If he falls under their spell, I’m gonna look away. Really. I am.”
“I bet he’s fighting it because he’s found his mate.”
Regin frowned. Then it would destroy him to be with another female, even under these circumstances.
Eventually the ravenous succubae took MacRieve—a Lykae male in his prime—down, pinning him to the ground. The shock he must be feeling …
When one of them ripped off his shirt, he spat in her face. “You bluidy whores! Rot in hell!”
Beneath her hands, Regin felt the glass cell wall bulging out. More splinters fractured across it. “Natalya, on the count of three, we charge the glass. Hard. You harder than me. Because of my recent fileting and all.”
Natalya nodded, and they crossed to the back of the cell. “One … two … three.” They ran, ramming their shoulders against the glass. Impact. The wall shattered, sending them sprawling forward. The pressure shot shards like bullets into the corridor, riddling the succubae, tearing them apart.
Lying flat on the ground, MacRieve was mostly unscathed. He leapt to his feet and attacked the five, his claws slashing through their necks, finishing them off one by one. “My thanks to you, Regin.” Slash. “And to your friend.”