"Magister?" a soldier said. "Are you all right, sir?"
Declan gazed at their captive, then down at his gloved hands, noting how they shook. No, I'm not f**kin' all right! He'd almost wished his hands had been bare when he'd taken her. To feel a woman's flesh after so long ...
He'd craved touching her even as he'd stabbed her.
Sick.
Declan peered at the soldier. As he coldly said, "Of course, I'm all right," he thought, They're being led by a madman.
Chapter THREE
In the transport plane's cabin, Declan scuffed to the bed, only partial y dried off from his recent shower.
He shed the towel around his hips, then fel back on the foam mattress. Shoving the heels of his palms against his eyes, he rubbed til his lids stung.
His fatigue wasn't surprising. Whenever he un-leashed his abilities, he suffered acute exhaustion, which was one of the reasons he took medicine to diminish them. Plus, he seldom slept on these hunting trips.
Just hours after the Valkyrie, he and his remaining men had set back out and bagged an easily captured witch. Now, at last, he could return home.
He should be out cold, but the tension within him wound even tighter. For as long as he could remember, he'd felt a constant pain in his chest coupled with a punishing anxiety that ate at the pit of his gut. To this, he added frequent nightmares about a fiend at his back, his body gored by steel, and a woman's screams.
That harrowing sense of loss ...
He cal ed it the strain. Because even as a lad, he'd known it would break him one day.
His medicine helped, but those nightly injections couldn't quel it completely. It proved too strong, too pervasive.
Right now, the strain was grueling, and he'd depleted his travel supply yesterday. They were still hours away from their isolated destination-a secret instal ation in the stormy southern Pacific. Which meant hours before he could score more.
Declan supposed it was his fate always to be injecting something.
The ride was jarring, the weather turbulent. He didn't mind flying, had trained as a pilot, but this nauseated even him.
Or maybe it was the aftereffects of this night's work.
The betrayed look in the Valkyrie's eyes still con-founded him. When capturing immortals, he'd been critical y injured, even bespel ed once; but never had one looked at him with recognition and then ... hurt.
As if he'd broken the gravest promise.
Never had he nearly vomited in the midst of a capture.
He lifted the rubber-edged dog tags hanging around his neck. Behind one, he'd soldered a smallmedal ion, an old Irish charm for luck. His da had bought it for him when Declan was a lad. At times like this, Declan would rub his thumb over it, though no luck had ever come of it.
It was a reminder of what her kind had cost him, what they were capable of.
The Valkyrie had kil ed ten of his men.
And yet he couldn't stop himself from glancing at his cabin door. She was in the transport bay. He could reach it easily from here.
What is this? Why did Declan feel like he'd die if he didn't see her that second?
He recal ed that expression of ecstasy on her face-and the way he'd responded. He remembered his thoughts at that moment, was shamed by the ideas that had arisen.
To touch that glowing skin, to be burned by it ...
When he'd seized her in his arms, he'd nearly groaned. That had been the most his body had touched a female's in years. Her scent and curves had tantalized him.
But in the end, his training had taken over, and he'd stabbed her.
He reached beside the bed, col ecting the sword he always kept close. He unsheathed it, turning it back and forth in the muted cabin light. Crimson still stained the blade near the hilt.
How much blood it has spilled. Immortal blood.
Just two nights ago, he'd used it to capture an ancient vampire, one that had kil ed thousands of humans over its unending lifetime, like a silent plague.
Preston Webb had given Declan the blade for his Order initiation, tell ing him, "Your family would have been proud, son."
If they hadn't been tortured by detrus creatures right before my eyes.
Right alongside me ...
Best that they hadn't survived. Else they'd be as f**ked in the head as Declan was. And his brother, Colm? Who'd had his throat slit at fifteen years old?
Colm had been the lucky one.
With an inward shake, Declan sheathed the sword. Why am I thinking about that night now? He'd buried those memories deep; his medicine helped keep them there.
He'd been considering doubling up on his doses for months. Now he decided it was time. Which meant he'd need to see his "pusher" upon returning to the island. For now, he could do nothing but wait.
Another glance at the door ...
When Regin woke, she was bound and gagged, with a hood over her head and her body strapped to a gurney of some sort. She could tell she was on a plane, could scent saltwater miles beneath them.
Can this night get any worse?
Memories flooded her consciousness: shadowy men shooting her with electricity ... her bliss from said electricity ... a large male with uncanny speed getting the drop on her. ...
He'd stabbed her in the side? The pain still throbbing there confirmed her injury-
Ah, gods! He'd been Aidan, returned once more.
She felt crazed, almost laughing hysterical y. Had she thought this night couldn't get any worse? Aidan, have you come to perish gruesomely? Then I'm your girl!
But never in his other lifetimes had he harmed her. If he was truly Aidan, then surely those other men were evil, and he'd had to play along.
By twisting the knife?
He'd been so fast, powerful. No surprise there. In each reincarnation, he'd been a berserker, even if he hadn't known it.
No matter what, she had to get away from him. She strained against the bindings securing her wrists behind her back. Nothing. Likely unbreakable. And that injection had probably weakened her.
Forced to lie here, bound, in pitch darkness.
Regin didn't have Zen, wasn't insane like Nix or laser-focused like Lucia. Each second like this, in a plane taking her farther from where she needed to be, was maddening. "Oh, You'll fly out tonight," Nix had told her. Yuk it up. You're so going to pay.
But why would Nix do this? Especial y after the bomb she'd dropped on Regin right before they'd separated on Bourbon Street: "When Cruach rises this time, he'l ring in the apocalypse. Every sentient being on earth will become infected with the need to sacrifice whoever they love most."
Uh, man down here, Nix. One fewer apocalypse aversion associate. Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, soothsayer-
The click of a door sounded. Then footsteps. Someone sat next to her. She could feel tension rolling off him, knew it was Aidan.
Who for some reason had gutted her in a dirty street.