Dreams of a Dark Warrior

I can see this getting old in a hurry.” The hair on his right temple was matted with blood.
    “He’s been like this ever since they threw him in here four days ago. He doesn’t eat or drink, just stares and bangs.”
    “What is he?”
    “I can’t puzzle it out. He doesn’t have horns, pointed ears—or apparently a need to eat. He does have small fangs, but he also sports a tan line.”
    “You
checked
? Natalya, you durrrty bitch.”
    “Hey, I had to determine if he was a blood sucker or not. Now I don’t know what to think.”
    Doing her best to ignore the banging, Regin asked, “Who else have they taken prisoner?”
    “It’s a who’s-who list of the Lore.”
    Regin gave the fey the look her comment deserved. “As evidenced by the fact that
I
am here.”
    “Volós the centaur king and the Lykae Uilleam MacRieve have been here for a couple of weeks. They brought Carrow Graie in just before you.”
    Carrow? Regin was good friends with the witch.
My man is responsible for all this?
    “They’ve got scads of ghouls, Wendigos, some high-powered Sorceri. Numerous succubae and vampires …”
    Out of the corner of her eye, Regin spied two guards dragging by a towering prisoner. She turned, gasped.
    Lothaire the Enemy of Old.
    The vampire was drugged, his head lolling, his pale blond hair stained with blood. His clothes were unmistakably moneyed—his muscular legs encased in leather pants, his shirt tailored to fit his lean build.
    But the shirt had a bloody slit in the side. Natalya murmured, “The Blademan took
Lothaire
down?”
    The Russian Horde vampire was diabolical. If these humans could capture and contain
him
…
    With difficulty, he raised his head, his hoodedeyes flashing to Regin, his reddened irises darkening. Without a word, he bared bloody fangs at her.
    Once he and the guards passed, Regin bit out, “Those two with Lothaire … they’re truly
human
? I think I finally understand what a mindfuck is.”
    “It’s the collars. The mortals call them torques. They weaken us, dim our powers through some mystical means.”
    Regin yanked at hers again. “So how do you get it off?”
    “They can’t be broken. Only the warden or magister can unlock them—with a thumbprint.”
    Oh, yeah, I’m screwed.
“All righty, then. About that alliance.” Regin shot a look up at the camera, rubbing her hand over her nape. “How old are you?” she asked the fey.
    “Why?”
    “’Cause you could use a little work.” She switched to the old immortal language to say, “Because you might understand this tongue.”
    Natalya answered in the same, “I know it.”
    “Has there
never
been a successful escape?” Regin asked, but she feared she knew the answer. There was a reason Regin had never heard of the Order.
    “The fox shifter next door has been here for years—she hears
everything,
conversations even in other wards. No one has gotten free.”
    “There’s got to be a way.”
    “It’s said we’re on an island, far from any coast and surrounded by shark-filled waters. The cell is inescapable, the glass unbreakable. To have any chance at freedom, you’d have to get out of the cellfirst. They only take us out for three things—torture, experimentations, and executions.”
    “Mark my words, fey. I will escape this place. And if you get me up to speed and keep me there, I’ll take you with me.”
    Natalya tapped her chin with a black claw. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you have a card up your sleeve.”
    “Maybe I do.” Regin had knowledge of an upcoming event.
    Declan Chase’s imminent demise.

SIX

    W hat the hell are they speaking?
    Declan had observed the Valkyrie and fey’s tense interaction with interest. He was fascinated with the hierarchies and alliances in the Lore, the usual predictability of their castes and classes.
    But once their initial discord had faded, they’d begun calmly speaking to each other in a different tongue, one that seemed familiar to Declan.
    Over the years, he’d studied on his own to learn the languages of his enemies—the vampires’ Russian, the Lykae’s Gaelic, the rough Demonish of the various demonarchies—but he couldn’t place this.
    With the click of a button, he started a program to translate their words, confident that he’d soon have a transcript of everything.
    Input invalid.
    What the hell? His program couldn’t pin down the language. He rang a technician. “I want a translation from cell seventy.
Now
.”
    “They’re