Dreams of a Dark Warrior

corridors. And once those bulkheads dropped, a self-destruct sequence would engage, overridden only by an officer.
    Every contingency planned for,
he mused, even as concerns about overcrowding weighed on him.
    “You seem distracted,” Dixon said. “Is it because of your upcoming interrogation?”
    “Lothaire will be just one among many vampires,” he replied coolly, belying his interest in this one. Though the Order knew more about their kind—their origins, weaknesses, any anomalous powers—than about any other species, aspects of Lothaire proved a mystery.
    Certain vampires could harvest memories if they drank blood straight from the flesh. And if one killed as he fed, he could usurp a victim’s physical and mystical strengths. Over time, the older ones grew maddened from so many memories, their irises reddening.
    Lothaire had that harvesting ability and was one of the oldest vampires alive, yet his eyes hadn’t turned fully red. Somehow he’d refrained from drinking as much as his brethren, shrewdly clinging to what little sanity he still possessed.
    The Enemy of Old was an anomaly. Anomalies fascinated Declan.
    Still the vampire had stolen enough memories to suffer bouts of instability and hallucinations. Declan had observed him slicing his black claws across his wrists to dine on his own blood as he conversed with himself. While at other times, his red eyes had seemed to burn with intelligence and cunning.
    Declan wondered which side of Lothaire he’d encounter this afternoon.
    In any event, he expected a worthy opponent. Natural born vampires like Lothaire were physically incapable of telling a lie, so they resorted to trickery and verbal misdirection; by all accounts, Lothaire was a master of deception.
    No matter.
I will best him. Just as I will best the Valkyrie in her interrogation tomorrow.
    As they approached her cell, his skin pricked with awareness. For the most part Declan had ignored her—until earlier this morning when his curiosity had prevailed, and he’d pulled up her cell on the monitor.
    She’d been braiding her hair into haphazard plaits that he somehow found pleasing to the eye—though one would think she’d grow more proficient at braiding after a thousand years. When a fight had broken out in a cell down the ward, she’d bitten herknuckle, then cried out dramatically,
“Can’t we all just get along?”
    Did she consider this some kind of game? Once Declan had finished with her tomorrow, she’d understand how dangerous her position was. …
    For now, seeing the Valkyrie in her cage, imprisoned right along with the other unnatural beings would remind him that she might be fair of face, but beneath the surface she was still one of them. A detrus.
    Her beauty just made her more dangerous.
    He’d been taught by the Order that they were abominations walking among humans, filled with untold malice toward mankind … a perversion of the natural order, spreading their deathless numbers uncontrollably … a plague upon man that must be eradicated. …
    Experience had taught him no differently.

TEN

    W hen she heard Chase’s low voice in a clipped conversation as he approached, Regin resumed her customary spot on the floor.
    Footsteps closer … closer …
    And then he appeared—pale, angry, with his gaze fixed directly ahead. His pupils were dilated—everyone here knew he was on something. And he still sported those same black leather gloves. Rumor held that Chase hated to be touched, wore the gloves to avoid it.
Freak.
    At his side was Dr. Dixon, the head researcher/dissector. Though Dixon wasn’t a pound-candidate per se—she had an athletic figure and even features—she was no looker either. She had lifeless brown hair, and her oversize glasses were the type that only a supremely confident woman could pull off.
    Chase seemed to be half-listening to the woman, answering in monosyllables—while Dixon was visibly lusting over him.
The sick mortal two-bit.
    When they paused at a cell diagonal to Regin’s, she tried to determine what the woman saw in him.
    Regin supposed his thick coal-black hair was nice, and his features were attractive enough. He had a strong chin, defined jawline, and prominent cheekbones withshadowed hollows beneath them. His nose was thin and straight.
    He held his broad shoulders erect in a proud military posture, and his soldier garb was pleasingly butch—shined combat boots, a black crewneck pullover with shoulder patches, and camo pants that were