Dreams of a Dark Warrior (9 page)

Never had he nearly vomited in the midst of a capture.

He lifted the rubber-edged dog tags hanging around his neck. Behind one, he’d soldered a smal

medal ion, an old Irish charm for luck. His da had bought it for him when Declan was a lad. At times like

this, Declan would rub his thumb over it, though no luck had ever come of it.

It was a reminder of what her kind had cost him, what they were capable of.

The Valkyrie had kil ed ten of his men.

And yet he couldn’t stop himself from glancing at his cabin door. She was in the transport bay. He could

reach it easily from here.

What is this?
Why did Declan feel like he’d die if he didn’t see her that second?

He recal ed that expression of ecstasy on her face—and the way he’d responded. He remembered his

thoughts at that moment, was shamed by the ideas that had arisen.

To touch that glowing skin, to be burned by it …

When he’d seized her in his arms, he’d nearly groaned. That had been the most his body had touched

a female’s in years. Her scent and curves had tantalized him.

But in the end, his training had taken over, and he’d stabbed her.

He reached beside the bed, col ecting the sword he always kept close. He unsheathed it, turning it back

and forth in the muted cabin light. Crimson stil stained the blade near the hilt.

How much blood it has spilled.
Immortal blood.

Just two nights ago, he’d used it to capture an ancient vampire, one that had kil ed thousands of

humans over its unending lifetime, like a silent plague.

Preston Webb had given Declan the blade for his Order initiation, tel ing him, “Your family would have

been proud, son.”

If they hadn’t been tortured by detrus creatures right before my eyes.

Right alongside me …

Best that they hadn’t survived. Else they’d be as fucked in the head as Declan was. And his brother,

Colm? Who’d had his throat slit at fifteen years old?

Colm had been the lucky one.

With an inward shake, Declan sheathed the sword.
Why am I thinking about that night now?
He’d

buried those memories deep; his medicine helped keep them there.

He’d been considering doubling up on his doses for months. Now he decided it was time. Which meant

he’d need to see his “pusher” upon returning to the island. For now, he could do nothing but wait.

Another glance at the door …

When Regin woke, she was bound and gagged, with a hood over her head and her body strapped to a

gurney of some sort. She could tel she was on a plane, could scent saltwater miles beneath them.

Can this night get any worse?

Memories flooded her consciousness: shadowy men shooting her with electricity … her bliss from said

electricity … a large male with uncanny speed getting the drop on her. …

He’d stabbed her in the side? The pain stil throbbing there confirmed her injury—

Ah, gods! He’d been Aidan, returned once more.

She felt crazed, almost laughing hysterical y. Had she thought this night couldn’t get any worse?
Aidan,
have you come to perish gruesomely? Then I’m your girl!

But never in his other lifetimes had he harmed her. If he was truly Aidan, then surely those other men

were evil, and he’d had to play along.

By twisting the knife?

He’d been so fast, powerful. No surprise there. In each reincarnation, he’d been a berserker, even if

he hadn’t known it.

No matter what, she had to get away from him. She strained against the bindings securing her wrists

behind her back. Nothing. Likely unbreakable. And that injection had probably weakened her.

Forced to lie here, bound, in pitch darkness.

Regin didn’t have Zen, wasn’t insane like Nïx or laser-focused like Lucia. Each second like this, in a

plane taking her farther from where she needed to be, was maddening. “Oh, you’l fly out tonight,” Nïx had told her.
Yuk it up. You’re
so
going to pay.

But why would Nïx do this? Especial y after the bomb she’d dropped on Regin right before they’d

separated on Bourbon Street: “When Cruach rises this time, he’l ring in the apocalypse. Every sentient

being on earth wil become infected with the need to sacrifice whoever they love most.”

Uh, man down here, Nïx.
One fewer apocalypse aversion associate.
Whiskey Tango Foxtrot,

soothsayer—

The click of a door sounded. Then footsteps. Someone sat next to her. She could feel tension rol ing

off him, knew it was Aidan.

Who for some reason had gutted her in a dirty street.

He rose, paced, then sat once more. He said nothing, didn’t move, but she knew his gaze was raking

over her.

When she remembered to breathe, he said, “Awake already.” A faint accent tinged his deep voice, but

she couldn’t place it. He pul ed her hood off.

She blinked against the low light, noting details as he came into focus. Dear gods, he was big, as tal as the original warlord she’d almost fal en in love with.

He was dressed al in black, from his jacket and combat pants to his gloves. His skin was pale, stark

against the pitch-black hair that hung down past his forehead, partial y concealing scars on one cheek.

He was middle-aged, probably upper thirties, with a strong jaw, broad cheekbones—and Aidan’s eyes. In

this face, they looked cold.

Though for one brief moment tonight, they’d glowed with a berserker’s light—the tel tale sign she’d

spied while bleeding out in the street.

Aidan. She hadn’t imagined it. Hel , she’d been sensing his reincarnation for three decades, had been

warned by Nïx for just as long.

“I have questions for you, Valkyrie.”

Oh, I’ve got some for you, too. Like why you did a blender on my insides.

“Answer them truthful y, and you won’t be harmed more this night.”

This night?
Final y, she nodded. With one gloved hand, he reached for her mouth. With his other, he shoved a cocked pistol against her temple. “I know a gunshot won’t kil you. But it’l shut you up. Try one of your Valkyrie shrieks, and I’l put a bul et in your brain.”

Definitely not an act. Great. Her Viking had come back wrong. She’d figured it would have to happen

sooner or later.
Hello, later.

Al the effort she’d gone through to flee from him these past decades, to spare his current life, was for

nothing.

So why had he captured her? And who were those men with him?

“Do you understand me, female?”

When she nodded again, he snatched the tape off, leaving her lips stinging like fire. She bit back a foul

curse, growing less freaked and more pissed with each second. Regin’s temper was legendary for a

reason.

“How did your sister Nïx know we’d been fol owing you? And why did she dispatch you to attack my

men?”

“Dispatch?” He must’ve bugged her car! What exactly had he heard? “You know, it was more of a

suggestion, like try the prime rib.”

His pale lips curved into an evil sneer. “Have you ever been shot in the head before? I’ve often

wondered what the pain would be like.”

“I have been, and it hurts,” she answered honestly. “I’l answer your questions, if you tel me who you

are and why I’ve been captured.”

His eyes narrowed. “I’m Declan Chase.”

He thought his name was Declan.
But not for long.

“I work for the Order, a mortal army at war with your kind.”

“Never heard of ’em.”
I’m screwed.
“Then why have you taken me prisoner? Why not just kil me?”

Maybe she was to be a war prize? Then history would repeat itself. She had to bite back a hysterical

laugh. “You were coming for me anyway, weren’t you?”

“You were selected for capture. We also … study unique immortals.”

Something about the way he said that last part gave her chil s. “You mean experiment?”

“Correct.”

Yep. Screwed. Her eyes darted around the cargo hold. How the hel could she escape? “And that’s

where you’re taking me now? To a jail? Or probably a lab?”

“We cal it a
facility
. Now answer my questions,” he said, his accent growing thicker.

It was either Irish or lowlands Scot. This Aidan version was Celtic. Before, he’d been a French knight, a

Spanish privateer, and an English cavalryman.

“Nïx knows just about everything,” Regin said. “She’s a soothsayer. In fact, I’m sure she’s already

foreseen where you’re taking me. I don’t know why she wanted me to attack your men.”
Unless she

planned
for me to get captured.
Knowing Nïx, she probably considered al this a date that she’d set up between Regin and Aidan. “With her, I usual y don’t ask.”

“We’l discover it on our own anyway.” The muzzle pressed harder against her temple. “Tel me, then,

did you enjoy kil ing my men?”

Regin rol ed her eyes. “Of course I enjoyed offing them. You guys came to
our
turf, remember?”
Filter,
Regin!

“I should
off
you right here.” He began unconsciously running the muzzle up and down her cheek.

She could shriek before he could shoot her, blowing out the glass of this aircraft. She might survive a

crash. Aidan would be done for.

Even now she hesitated to harm him. “I can’t tel you how much you would regret that.”

“Because your kind wil exact revenge on me?” He cast her that cruel sneer, a twisting of his lips. “And

I can’t tel you how many times I’ve heard that.”

She shook her head. “No, not because of revenge. You’l regret hurting me.”

“Regret? I despise your kind. I savored hurting you, anticipate the next time I can.”

Once he remembered, his actions would put him to his knees with misery.

“Why did you act as if you know me?” he asked.

How to answer that? The sooner he remembered, the sooner he died. In the past, she’d done

everything she could to keep him from remembering.
I can’t tell him.
“I thought you were someone else.”

When she shrugged as best as she could, the wound in her side erupted in fresh pain. Between gritted

teeth, she said, “Since you’ve brought it up, my kind
will
exact revenge. They’l unleash hel on you for this.”

He leaned in as if imparting a secret. “Then they had best do it fast. Because we’re going to

interrogate you, and examine you, and then we’l behead you. You’l beg for mercy, but I’l grant you none.”

Icy dread shivered over her. “What the hel ,” Regin whispered, “did I ever do to you?”

He shoved the tape back over her mouth and yanked the hood down. At her ear, he rasped, “You

exist.”

Another shot in her arm, and unconsciousness took her once more.

FOUR

B
ack at the facility, Declan signed over his unconscious prisoners to the warden, a stout, beady-eyed arsehole named Fegley.

The man hated Declan. The feeling was mutual.

Fegley was in charge of processing the inmates, removing their effects and any hidden weapons,

formal y ID’ing them, and col aring them. While he worked, a physician from the research arm would take

biological samples for an initial workup, then the prisoner would be transferred to one of the three

hundred cel s spread out over two containment wards.

“Which cel are you putting the Valkyrie in?” Declan asked.

“Seventy.”

“Why there?” Two inmates already occupied that cel . Yes, the facility was overcrowded, and they’d

been doubling up, but prisoners were usual y placed with much forethought.

So why put the Valkyrie with a female fey assassin and a semi-catatonic male halfling?

“More prisoners came in while you were gone.” Fegley shrugged. “Webb ordered her into that one. And

I don’t question orders,” he said pointedly.

Stifling his long-denied urge to strike the man, Declan turned toward the research ward and his own

suite of rooms.

Though he didn’t understand Webb’s reasoning at times, it wasn’t his place to question an order either.

Or to question
anything
. Even when he itched to know how Webb acquired new information about their foes. Or how this island was kept hidden from their detrus soothsayers and oracles. …

When Declan reached his suite, he unlocked the executive office he used as a reception area. From

that room, two corridors branched off behind concealed panels. One led to a storage warehouse—with

an emergency escape tunnel—the other to his private quarters. There he had a sizable multilevel space

with a gym, a kitchen, a work and sleep area, and an adjoining bath.