Dreams of a Dark Warrior

THIRTY-TWO

Dorada 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 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. …