Dreams of a Dark Warrior

FIVE

Where am I?” Regin mumbled groggily, fighting to wake. Was somebody kicking her hip? “Who are you? Why’s it dark in here?”

“Take the bag off your head, you tosser,” a female said in a British accent.

Bag. Abduction. Not a dream. “Don’t kick me again,” Regin warned.

The next time a boot connected with her hip, her hands shot out to seize it, twisting until the owner went spinning to the ground. The move had Regin wincing from the pain in her side, but she swiftly snatched the bag off her head as she labored to stand.

Her eyes darted around. I’m in a cell? So this was the Order’s facility?

A black-haired female was bounding back to her feet, her purplish eyes narrowed. She wore tight club shorts, a leather halter, fishnet stockings with ripped holes, and the stiletto boots Regin had already been acquainted with.

“I recognize you,” Regin said. “Yeah, you’re Natalya the Shadow. Dark fey assassin.” She remembered the female’s onyx-colored lips and claws. Her poisonous claws. Rumor had it that her very blood was black.

“And you’re the glowing Valkyrie.”

They’d had a contentious relationship in the past. Regin and her sisters used to snicker and call Natalya the Killer Fairy. Until she’d flung poisoned knives at them. Now Regin defensively reached for her swords—

“No swords for you.” Natalya swept back her mane of stick-straight jet hair and began stalking around her, claws bared.

“And no daggers to throw for you.”

As they circled each other, Regin flared her own claws as she tried to get her bearings.

Within this small cell, there were two sets of bunks, a toilet, and a sink. Three of the walls were made of solid metal, while the front was a wall of thick glass. In the corner was a second inmate, a young male, maybe late teens. Don’t know what kind. He was knocking his head against the metal wall, his eyes glazed.

Down a long corridor were even more cells.

Attention back to Natalya. “Aren’t you s’posed to be dead?” Regin asked as they each assessed the other for weaknesses. Natalya’s gaze flickered over the remnants of her wound, Regin’s over the weird collar Natalya wore.

Regin reached up to her neck. What the— I do too? She yanked on the metal band, but couldn’t break it.

“Not dead,” Natalya said. “Just put on involuntary hiatus.”

“So are we fighting again, or do you always kick people in greeting?”

“Your m.o. is to attack first and ask questions later. Mine is the same. Seems to me that we don’t have that luxury if we’re going to escape this place.” She lowered her hands. “I think we might need to join forces.”

Normally the fey and Valkyrie allied. But Natalya was a dark fey—half fey overlord, half demon slave. “I’ll agree to a truce, but I’ll escape this place with or without your help,” Regin said, lowering her hands as well.

She didn’t need any dark-fey deadweight slowing her down. As soon as Regin knew the lay of the land, the schedules, and the security protocols, she’d devise something. “In any case, my sisters will come for me soon.”

“That’s what everyone else keeps saying, but no one has ever mounted a rescue. We think this installation is hidden from the outside.”

In a smug tone, Regin said, “Everyone else doesn’t have Nïx the Ever-Knowing in their corner.” Though Nïx might be the one who put me here!

“Seems the most powerful oracle alive could have given you a heads-up about your capture.”

“She does everything for a reason,” Regin answered truthfully. Her every stray glance or offbeat Nïxism could be pivotal in shaping the future. But deciphering these portents took more patience than Regin possessed.

“I’ve got information you need,” Natalya said. “The immortals have a grapevine of gossip passed from cell to cell. In the two weeks that I’ve been here, I’ve learned much about this place. And about our captors. For instance, I know the magister took you down personally.”

“Magister?”

“Declan Chase. Tall, pale face, soulless eyes.”

“Completely soulless.” This time. “How did you know?” Regin spied a camera above, placed to capture everything within. She’d bet he was watching her right now. Creepy.

“Because he stabbed you in the side. He’s also known as the Blademan. Sometimes the Order catches us in sweeps, and sometimes they target us specifically. Appears that you were on the magister’s shopping list.”

“And magister means in charge?” Great. Aidan was the bossman of these mortals—the ones insane enough to provoke immortals.

“I believe a magister is one step below a commander.”

Behind them, the young guy’s head banging increased tempo. “Uh, you wanna to tell me what his drama is?”

He was handsome and dark-haired, built like an athlete, but he couldn’t be more than seventeen or eighteen. He looked disconcertingly human, wearing some high-school football T-shirt, broken-in jeans, and weathered cowboy boots. “’Cause 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 hooded eyes 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 cell first. 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.