Dreams of a Dark Warrior

heard a new recruit mutter, “Chase gives me the ever-living creeps. Like he’d slit your throat just for shits and giggles.”
    But Declan didn’t give a damn how they felt as long as they followed his orders.
    As he strode down the ward, he stared down any prisoners who didn’t avert their eyes. Did they sense something about him, as the vampire had? “You’re no normal mortal,” Lothaire had told him.
    Paranoia had Declan running a gloved hand over the back of his neck.
    His shite day only continued to worsen. He’d been off his game with Lothaire because of his encounter with the Valkyrie. And MacRieve’s escape attempt just highlighted the security risks inherent in overcrowding.
    Yet Webb continued to accept prisoners, disregarding Declan’s repeated recommendations for culling. The two would discuss this soon.
Either I run this place my way, or Webb should come take over.
    Then Declan had a flash thought. What if Webbagreed with him—and wanted to terminate the Valkyrie?
    So be it,
he assured himself. Yet the idea sent a chill through him. And he didn’t know why! His job, his purpose on this earth, was to destroy her kind, one at a time.
    If he couldn’t do it, then why was he here? Damn her, what hold did she have over him?
    Tomorrow I plan to torture her. Yet I’m drawn to her, attracted to her as I’ve never been to another.
    And he hated her for it.

THIRTEEN

    H
ey, fresh meat!”
a Ferine demon called from his cell as a burly guard led Regin down the ward. “Not so high and mighty when you can’t get to us, huh?”
    Regin was cuffed, shaking off the effects of poisonous gas, and on her way to be either interrogated or vivisected.
    Now demons were going to taunt her? She half-lunged, half-stumbled toward the cell.
    “Easy, Valkyrie,” the guard said, drawing her back in line. She believed some inmates had called him Vincente.
    The demons shrank back from the glass. As she passed, she heard one say, “That Valkyrie made me eat a crab trap last summer.”
    Regin smirked. She’d thought she recognized him. Her smirk faded when she spied the occupant of the next cell over.
    Carrow the Incarcerated, one of Regin’s good friends and a party-hearty pal. The black-haired witch stood at the glass, forcing a smile. “It’s like a bad hangover that won’t stop, huh?”
    Behind her was a sorceress Regin recognized, the Queen of Persuasion. Sorceri were tricksy, some good,some evil. “You all right in there?” Regin asked, as if she were still a badass Valkyrie bosswoman who’d fix the sitch otherwise.
    Carrow nodded. “The sorceress is cool. So, you heading for an interrogation? Or an … exam?”
    Regin made with the stiff upper lip when she casually said, “Dunno. Chase or Dixon. One of them will have my foot up their ass directly.” She shrugged. “Catch you on the flip side, witch.”
    About ten cells down from Carrow was
Brandr—
Aidan’s kinsman. Who’d taken his vow to his leader and friend
very
seriously.
    “Regin!” He leapt up from a bunk.
    “Well, well, the gang’s all here.” Nïx must’ve given him Regin’s whereabouts. Again.
    “I’m going to get you out of here,” he said, his green eyes aglow.
    She snorted. “Let me know how that works out for you, Job MacBangup.” Seeing Brandr here just brought her situation into stark relief. “It’s curious though—you don’t usually show until it’s time to bury him.”
    Brandr flinched, and immediately Regin felt guilty. Both of them had a role to play in this curse. Regin forever triggered Aidan’s death. Brandr was forever too late to save him. No matter how hard that man tried.
    Many in the Lore had begun to call him Brandr the True.
    In a milder tone, she said, “You know who brought me here?”
    “Yes, it’s
him,
though I barely believe it. Regin, just hold on. I’ll figure something out …”
    Vincente forced her along the corridor.
    When they passed the centaur king’s cell, Volós pointed at Regin and slid his forefinger across his throat.
    She replied, “Hey, didn’t I see you in a donkey show down in Tijuana? No? You’ve got a twin then—”
    “Move on,” Vincente said warningly.
    She gazed up at the guard. He looked like an ex-prizefighter—heavyweight—with a pronounced brow, a brick-end chin, and a five-o’clock shadow that she’d bet no razor could KO. He was dark-haired, his features a compelling blend of Native American meets mafioso.
    He was the first human here not to gaze