Dreams of a Dark Warrior (Immortals After Dark 11)

Even a winged Vrekener-a horned demonic version of an angel-had been captured.

Declan grudgingly admitted that this wasn't a bad haul, though not nearly the caliber of his last one. Nor in the same league as my next will be. He'd been laying a trap for the most powerful immortal ever to live. A vampiric demon ...

When they passed the cel of Uil eam MacRieve, the Lykae said, "You're the magister?" His Scottish brogue was thick, his eyes blue with rage.

Declan merely stared at him. In less than half an hour, Dixon was scheduled to examine the were-wolf. She and her team would be doing the regular workup, but they'd also be testing a sonic weapon devised to immobilize a creature with his acute sense of hearing.

Turning strengths into weaknesses.

MacRieve bared his fangs. "When I get free from this place-"

Without a word, Declan continued on, ignoring him. If he had a quid for every time one of them said, "When I get free ..."

I'd be even wealthier than I currently am.

All these immortals smugly thought they'd escape soon, assuming that humans could never contain them. Yet in the centuries of the Order's history, none had escaped.

And no one would be breaking that perfect record under Declan's watch. He'd instal ed so many security fail-safes that commanders and other magisters mocked him. They cal ed this Instal ation Overkill.

What they considered costly excess, he deemed standard precautions.

The metal wal s of the cel s were solid steel, three feet thick. The forward glass wal was made of the same material used for space shuttle windshields. If reentry into the earth's atmosphere couldn't crack that glass, then an immortal with a torque sure as hel couldn't.

But if one did breach the glass, then hydraulic bulkheads-barriers of six-foot-thick steel-would drop into place, sealing each of the three corridors. And once those bulkheads dropped, a self-destruct sequence would engage, overridden only by an officer.

Every contingency planned for, he mused, even as concerns about overcrowding weighed on him.

"You seem distracted," Dixon said. "Is it because of your upcoming interrogation?"

"Lothaire will be just one among many vampires," he replied cool y, belying his interest in this one.

Though the Order knew more about their kind-their origins, weaknesses, any anomalous powers-than about any other species, aspects of Lothaire proved a mystery.

Certain vampires could harvest memories if they drank blood straight from the flesh. And if one killed as he fed, he could usurp a victim's physical and mystical strengths. Over time, the older ones grew maddened from so many memories, their irises reddening.

Lothaire had that harvesting ability and was one of the oldest vampires alive, yet his eyes hadn't turned ful y red. Somehow he'd refrained from drinking as much as his brethren, shrewdly clinging to what little sanity he still possessed.

The Enemy of Old was an anomaly. Anomalies fascinated Declan.

Stil the vampire had stolen enough memories to suffer bouts of instability and hal ucinations. Declan had observed him slicing his black claws across his wrists to dine on his own blood as he conversed with himself. While at other times, his red eyes had seemed to burn with intel igence and cunning.

Declan wondered which side of Lothaire he'd encounter this afternoon.

In any event, he expected a worthy opponent. Natural born vampires like Lothaire were physically incapable of tell ing a lie, so they resorted to trickery and verbal misdirection; by all accounts, Lothaire was a master of deception.

No matter. I will best him. Just as I will best the Valkyrie in her interrogation tomorrow.

As they approached her cel , his skin pricked with awareness. For the most part Declan had ignored her-until earlier this morning when his curiosity had prevailed, and he'd pulled up her cel on the monitor.

She'd been braiding her hair into haphazard plaits that he somehow found pleasing to the eye-though one would think she'd grow more proficient at braiding after a thousand years. When a fight had broken out in a cel down the ward, she'd bitten her knuckle, then cried out dramatical y, "Can't we all just get along?"

Did she consider this some kind of game? Once Declan had finished with her tomorrow, she'd understand how dangerous her position was. ...

For now, seeing the Valkyrie in her cage, imprisoned right along with the other unnatural beings would remind him that she might be fair of face, but beneath the surface she was still one of them. A detrus.

Her beauty just made her more dangerous.

He'd been taught by the Order that they were abominations walking among humans, fil ed with untold malice toward mankind ... a perversion of the natural order, spreading their deathless numbers uncontrol ably ... a plague upon man that must be eradicated. ...

Experience had taught him no differently.

Chapter TEN

When she heard Chase's low voice in a clipped conversation as he approached, Regin resumed her customary spot on the floor.

Footsteps closer ... closer ...

And then he appeared-pale, angry, with his gaze fixed directly ahead. His pupils were dilated-everyone here knew he was on something. And he still sported those same black leather gloves. Rumor held that Chase hated to be touched, wore the gloves to avoid it. Freak.

At his side was Dr. Dixon, the head researcher/dissector. Though Dixon wasn't a pound-candidate per se-she had an athletic figure and even features-she was no looker either. She had lifeless brown hair, and her oversize glasses were the type that only a supremely confident woman could pul off.

Chase seemed to be half-listening to the woman, answering in monosyl ables-while Dixon was visibly lusting over him. The sick mortal two-bit.

When they paused at a cel diagonal to Regin's, she tried to determine what the woman saw in him.

Regin supposed his thick coal-black hair was nice, and his features were attractive enough. He had a strong chin, defined jawline, and prominent cheekbones with shadowed hol ows beneath them. His nose was thin and straight.

He held his broad shoulders erect in a proud military posture, and his soldier garb was pleasingly butch -shined combat boots, a black crewneck pul over with shoulder patches, and camo pants that were fitted around his narrow h*ps and muscular legs.

All in all , she might turn and check him out if he passed her on the street, but he was nothing like the other magnificent embodiments of Aidan. Not to mention his mental state.

A drugged-up freak of a torture expert? Have at him, Dixon.

In the old language, Natalya murmured, "He's noticeably gazing away from you. Why do you think that is?"

Regin had expected him to stare at her in confusion, to demonstrate that he'd begun to feel some pull toward her. Instead, he acted as if she didn't exist.