Dreams of a Dark Warrior (Immortals After Dark 11)

"This is mine by right, Webb. More than anyone's. Ye ken it is."

"You think about this. Long and hard. Because to fight these monsters, son, You'll have to become one...."

Declan shot upright, waking drenched in sweat. Drops of it trailed down his chest, past his dog tags, over his raised scars.

With a shudder, he stared down at the wounds that had been carved into his body from neck to waist. More covered his back and down both his arms to his fingers.

He dropped his head in his hands. The Neoptera had taken his flesh and made him drink the blood of the ones he'd kil ed. Why? And how much of that blood had tainted his own that night?

Maybe that was how Declan had gotten his strength and speed, his heightened senses. Maybe the drugs kept his change at bay all this time. What else could explain it?

God, to become a thing like that ...

Nothing that a Glock to the mouth can't cure, Dekko.

He forced himself to lie back, to control the mad drumming of his heart. It was too soon for another injection.

Twenty years later, and I'm still shooting up.

But the dream had been so realistic, gripping him harder than it had in memory. He stared at the ceiling, recal ing those ensuing years, focusing his mind on all the work he'd done to get where he was now. ...

After his detox-a bleak period of unrelenting nausea and bone-jarring tremors-and four months of physical rehab for his injuries, the Order had taken him to their compound.

The training had been as punishing as Webb had promised. Pain came daily, but it did harden Declan. The commanders who hurt him the most were the ones he respected above all others.

When he'd heard other recruits complaining about "brainwashing techniques," Declan had been astounded that anyone might disagree with-or resist-what the commanders were instil ing in them. How could Declan be brainwashed into hating the detrus more than he already did?

Physical y, Declan had every advantage over the other recruits. Even at seventeen, he was bigger, swifter, more powerful. Webb attributed it to kicking heroin, the training, the vitamins, and diet.

For once in his life, Declan had excel ed, even thrived.

And while he'd learned weapons, hunting tactics, and military strategy, he'd begun educating himself and disguising his accent; he hadn't wanted his enemies to determine anything about him.

He buried all traces of his past so that no one could ever connect him to the ignorant seventeen-year-old junkie who'd begged for death while his tormentors laughed around mouthfuls of his blood and skin.

After his initiation into the Order, Declan had hunted down the offspring and forebears of the creatures who'd butchered his own family. Yet that hadn't been enough to satisfy him. He'd become obsessed with tracking more and erasing them from the face of the earth.

And no matter how much the detrus begged-he always made them beg-he'd slaughtered them.

Nothing pleased him more.

But then two things had changed.

His abilities had become too noticeable; enter Dixon with her shots.

Webb had given him control of this instal ation, charging him with capturing and imprisoning the creatures Declan wanted only to kil .

Of course, Declan had obeyed the command, ignoring his own deep-seated needs. After all , the man had saved his life, then given him purpose.

Reminded of all Webb had done for him, Declan vowed to try harder to control himself, his ... impulses.

I know of no man more disciplined than me. He peered over at the monitor, saw the glowing Valkyrie on one of the bunks with her long blond hair spread out around her head. Like a halo.

I will crush this interest.

Eyes narrowed with hate, he rose and turned off the screen.

Chapter EIGHT

Magister Chase is making rounds today!" the shifter next door whispered urgently.

Regin rol ed her eyes. "Oh, quick, lemme check my hair." Directly beside their cel 's glass panel, she lay on her back with her legs stretched up against the metal wal , her arms folded behind her head.

Whatever was the opposite of checking her hair, that was what she'd be doing.

From the bottom bunk, Natalya yawned, waking from a nap. In the back of the cel , Roomie Number Three banged his head against the wal . Or at least, against the wadded up jacket Natalya had jammed there.

Wham ... wham ... wham ...

And so goes week one in the House of Horrors. From her spot on the floor, Regin watched the procession of evil researchers and guards going about their daily evil business.

Warden Fegley, the bane of their existence, had only made the first of his thrice daily rounds. The self-important trol loved to taunt immortals, egging them on to violence, then laughing when security gassed their cells.

And now Chase was making an appearance. Goody.

"Stil working out your escape plan?" Natalya asked. "There is a time element here, Valkyrie. I'm up for an examination soon. And You'll likely go before me since you were a high-priority capture."

Examination was a euphemism for vivisection. Where the subject was dissected while conscious. So far, they'd seen two victims brought by, their eyes glazed over, their chests carved open and held together with staples, like a flesh zipper.

Natalya had told her, "I heard that you experience pain like you've never known. They slice nerves or pluck at them just to see how you tick. You're awake when they crack open your chest to get at your heart. Afterward, they wire your ribs back together."

Unfortunately, Regin didn't have an escape plan yet. The only thing she knew for certain? The more she learned about Declan Chase, the more she wanted to take him out.

He truly was in charge of this entire hateful facility. all operations-from the experimentations to the torturous interrogations-were under his iron-fisted control. He himself was supposed to be a master at torture.

She studied her claws. Just thinking about the Blademan made them straighten and sharpen with aggression. For Aidan, they'd curled, aching to clutch his body close to hers.

"Care to crowd-source your plan?" Natalya asked. "Garner feedback? I actual y have some experience with escapes."

"I'll let you know." Regin did have that one ace in the hole. Chase would soon be dead if he remembered her. But, hel , she could be vivisected or executed before he ever did.

Regin had begun to see why some of the prisoners were going crazy in here. Their third roomie wasn't the only prisoner who banged his head against the wal . Time passed at an agonizingly slow pace. With no shower available, she'd been eyeing the sink for a whore's bath. Her side had ful y healed, but her clothes were stiff with dried blood.

Each second, Regin's anger toward Chase escalated, her temper redlining toward DEFCON REGIN.