Dreams of a Dark Warrior

narrowed. Though she should be invincible, scorch marks branded her decomposed skin. The mortals had shot—and wounded—her.
    Why hadn’t she regenerated to her full power before she’d attacked?
Too anxious to get to me?
    Wait, Dorada was removing Slaine’s collar? Lothaire hadn’t thought Slaine was particularly evil. And he was usually right about these things.
    Who am I kidding? I’m
always
right.
    Then Emberine appeared and shattered the demon’s cell wall with her fire. Slaine the slave, freed of his torque and his jail? The injustice of it all.
    Dorada swished to a stop in front of Lothaire’s cell and shrieked,
“RIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG!”
    “You know I don’t
have
your ring,
suka
.”
    La Dorada raised her withered arm. In a wave, the Wendigos rushed the glass of his cell. As they repeatedly barreled against it, blood and contagious saliva smeared the fractured glass, their claws clattering down it. …
    The barrier shattered. The stench of them—of her—nearly felled him.
    But as the creatures charged, Lothaire dug into his pockets, tossing salt. The granules burned their gaunt skin, shriveling it like a leech’s.
    He aimed for their faces to blind them. Putrid flesh gave up smoke, yet they kept advancing through that haze.
    He dodged their knifelike claws, swinging his fists to send them flying. But they recouped in turns, continuing their attack.
    Out of the corner of his eye, he spied Slaine climbing from the wreckage of his cell. As Lothaire clashed with the Wendigos, he bit out, “Slaine? A hand here.”
    Dorada swung her head at the demon to shriek,
“RIIIIINNNNNNGGGGG?”
    Slaine strode away, calling over his shoulder, “Where’s your allegiance now, vampire?”
    If you’re not with me, you’re against me,
Lothaire thought as he repelled another charge.
You’ve erred for ill. …
    Again and again, he cast the rabid creatures out. But the quaking beneath his feet intensified, keeping him off balance. The roof began to sag above him as the facility threatened to collapse. He waged a losing battle.
    Suddenly, the cement beneath the Wendigos fractured, the jagged line widening—
    In a deafening rush, the ground opened up, creating a yawning ravine; five Wendigos plunged into that blackness. The others hung on to the edge, scrabbling for the steel rebar that jutted from broken concrete.
    Under the immense pressure, the two rock faces of that new crevasse jerked forward and back as if the earth breathed.
    Lothaire rammed the heel of his boot atop the Wendigos’ elongated fingers, dropping them one by one.
    Across the divide, La Dorada shrieked at him, her expression promising pain.
    “Come and finish me, then!” he bellowed, but his muscles were shuddering, his body too weakened from the Wendigos. … So this was how it would end?
    Dorada would keep him from what he desired so violently? The centuries of toil, the sacrifice.
    At the thought, fury spiked within him, coursing through his ancient royal blood.
Think of
her.
So young, beautiful. Think of those innocent eyes gazing up at me with delightful fear.
    A red haze covered his vision. The ground quaked once more. The crone teetered at the precipice.
    With the last of his strength, he sprinted to the edge and vaulted to a ledge of rock just beneath her. His hand snaked out to seize her ankle. He gave a vicious yell and yanked.
    La Dorada screamed as she crashed to her back.
    Holding on by the fingertips of one hand, he pulled against her mighty strength … dragging her …
    She dropped over the edge. But as she fell, she caught his right leg with her claws, dangling below him.
    “Join your dogs, bitch!” He slammed his left boot into her hideous face, crushing one side. Another kick took her sole eye. A last kick—
    Dorada plummeted, her fading scream carried up for long moments. … Then silence from below, what had to be hundreds of feet down.
    His relief was short-lived. The rock face began to grind forward, closing the distance between the sides. A stone mouth with rebar teeth.
    Sweat broke out on his body, dripping into his eyes. He reached for the steel rods above him … stretching … higher still …
    Missed.
    Again, he tried to climb. His muscles were too deadened, starved for blood. The urge to release his grip grew undeniable.
    One finger slipped. Then another. …

THIRTY-THREE

    B attles. Everywhere. Directly in front of Regin and Natalya. But just out of reach.
    As the mountain continued to rise, the entire