Dreams of a Dark Warrior

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 facility.

THIRTY-TWO

    D orada 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