Dreams of a Dark Warrior

SIX

What the hell are they speaking?

Declan had observed the Valkyrie and fey’s tense interaction with interest. He was fascinated with the hierarchies and alliances in the Lore, the usual predictability of their castes and classes.

But once their initial discord had faded, they’d begun calmly speaking to each other in a different tongue, one that seemed familiar to Declan.

Over the years, he’d studied on his own to learn the languages of his enemies—the vampires’ Russian, the Lykae’s Gaelic, the rough Demonish of the various demonarchies—but he couldn’t place this.

With the click of a button, he started a program to translate their words, confident that he’d soon have a transcript of everything.

Input invalid.

What the hell? His program couldn’t pin down the language. He rang a technician. “I want a translation from cell seventy. Now.”

“They’re speaking no known language, sir.”

Declan hung up, tamping down his frustration. He’d heard tales of an omnilingual fey—an elven creature who somehow knew all languages. He put her on his capture list.

The phone rang. Webb was the only one who called his personal line. Declan had no friends or family.

When he answered, Webb said, “You completed all of your captures! Good work, son.”

Even after all this time, Declan savored the praise. He knew he’d cast Webb in a father’s role, but Webb had been just as quick to put Declan into a son’s. They’d both lost loved ones in this war. “Thank you, sir. But we sustained casualties when taking both the vampire and the Valkyrie.”

“I saw the videos of the captures. Of course, we knew taking Lothaire wouldn’t be easy. You confiscated a ring of his?”

“A plain gold band. He was incensed to lose it, even more homicidal.”

“It must have mystical powers. Find out what it does. And what about the Valkyrie? How did she know we were closing in?”

“Her soothsayer sister dispatched her to attack my men.”

“Nïx the Ever-Knowing did this?” Webb asked, his tone peculiar. “When is the glowing one in the exam schedule?”

Declan pulled up the rotation on his screen. “Dixon won’t have her until next week.” The facility was backlogged with inmates, and still Webb insisted on bringing in more, no matter how much Declan protested.

“Question the Valkyrie before then. Dig for as much intel as you can get before the docs get through with her. We need to discover how she produces energy, how she channels it—”

“You knew she could channel electricity?” That intel would’ve saved lives tonight.

“Not until we watched her capture,” Webb said. “Think, Declan, she doesn’t eat or drink, but she produces continuous, uninterrupted power. She’s like a walking reactor. Tapping into her energy source could solve the limitations inherent in the TEP-C.”

The Order’s charge throwers, or tactical electroshock pulse cannons, were incredibly effective against detrus—at least, against most of them besides Regin the Radiant—but they had limited firing power.

“If you can discover what fuels her, we can use it against her own kind. …”

Turning their strengths into weaknesses. Dixon’s team of scientists would cut the Valkyrie open on the operating table to get to the truth. Since they’d need measurable, duplicable results, they’d do it repeatedly.

Declan gazed at the monitor, regarding the female with puzzlement.

“In any case, now that we finally have a Valkyrie, we need to learn everything we can about her species, and what sets this one apart.”

Whenever the Order had been close to capturing a Valkyrie in the past, the target had grown spooked, as if she’d been tipped off. Likely by Nïx the Ever-Knowing.

So why had Nïx allowed Regin to be captured?

Why tell him he was late?

“And we need to know about the vampire’s ring,” Webb said. “I understand how difficult it is to get miscreats to talk, but I’m confident you can get me these answers.”

Though Declan had become an expert at torture, the immortals were astonishingly closemouthed, even withholding information about their natural enemies. The only way to get results was by tormenting a loved one or mate, but Declan had no leverage like that over either the Valkyrie or the vampire.

No matter. Somehow he would break them. “Yes, sir,” he said absently.

“Son?” Webb sighed. “You’re not feeling mercy for the Valkyrie? Because you had to harm a female?”

Thirty-five years of something had rushed to the fore.

“Remember, their beauty is a weapon. This one will not hesitate to wield it on you.” A pause. “Has she compromised your judgment? Tempted you in anyway?”

Declan grated, “No, sir!” The Order would mind-wipe and cast out any member who became involved with a detrus. Even an involuntary entrancement was enough to have one’s memory erased.

Unless it happens to me.

Two years ago, a witch had entranced Declan, cursing him to relive every terror and agony he’d ever experienced.

Webb had procured a countercurse before Declan had been driven insane—or at least noticeably insane. Then the commander had covered up the whole ordeal.

How many more rules would the old man break for him? Would he fix any more transgressions?

On this night, Declan had savored the feel of a captive’s body in his arms. And I’m … changing. His doses could barely control it.

Cast out.

At the idea, sweat beaded on his upper lip. The Order was all Declan had. He’d rather die than lose it. “I’ll get the results, sir.”

“Maybe I’ll come out and check on things next month or so. Might be a good time, with so many developments on the horizon.”

“Very good, sir. And perhaps we can talk then about culling some of these prisoners.”

Declan didn’t want them contained, or, God forbid, created. He wanted them all exterminated. “This facility is well over capacity.”

“We’ll talk about that when I get there.”

Once they’d hung up, Declan called for Vincente. The former Ranger was as trustworthy as any, he supposed, though Declan could never fully trust another, no one but Webb.

In moments, the burly guard arrived. Not for the first time, Declan wondered if the man ever slept.

He handed Vincente the protective box guarding the vampire’s ring. “I want you to get this ring analyzed. Have the metallurgist test for any mystical properties. The usual precautions—no one touches it. Return it before I question Lothaire.”

With a nod, the man took the box and exited.

Even after the warning that Webb’s call had provided, Declan turned back to the monitor for another look at the Valkyrie. She was sitting on the floor of her cell in front of the glass, resting her forehead and hands against it, as if she expected the door to open at any time.

Instead of feeling satisfaction to see her like this, he suffered more of that inexplicable conflict within him.

He’d done his duty with her. So why this … guilt? He clasped his aching forehead.

Why do I feel like I’m going mad? If so, then it’d been a long time coming.

He’d always known he wasn’t a perfect soldier, had known he was fucked up. How could he not be? His days of torment had left him emotionally stunted, unclean. But he got the bloody job done, controlling his eccentricities and deviations with exhausting training regimens.

Every day, he worked out in his room, lifting weights with a punishing intensity, then he ran at least forty miles—half the width of the island. He ate only enough food to stave off the worst of his hunger.

Anything to weaken himself, to help him appear normal.

And for years, his injections had rendered him an automaton, mindlessly carrying out the Order’s agenda. Those years had been the most satisfying in his entire life.

Clearly, he just needed stronger doses to get back to that state. Tonight he’d begin doubling up. It would help him ignore his new prisoner and finally get some sleep.

Decided, he stripped off his clothes, then snagged the case. Sitting on the edge of the bed, he plucked a needle from its cradle, using it to extract the clear contents from two glass vials.

He rested his elbow on his knee and squeezed his right fist, readying one track-marked inner arm.

A hungry vein answered the call. Kill the tension and pain, let me rest. He pressed the plunger … exhaling with pleasure as his heartbeat grew plodding, his breaths slowing. The higher dosage confirmed his suspicions.

Oh, aye, Dixon had been adding something illicit. Bless her.

The strain eased, the pain of old battle wounds lessening until he could lie back—but he kept the monitor in sight.

His lids grew heavy as he watched the Valkyrie, until he eventually fell asleep.

Yet instead of the oblivion he’d expected, he dreamed of a night in Belfast when he was just seventeen, the night his life changed forever.