The Immortals After Dark 11: Dreams of a Dark Warrior

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 cal . 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 il icit. 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 eventual y fel 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.

Chapter SEVEN

Declan rol ed off the chit onto his back, staring up at the rotting warehouse ceiling above his mattress. Maybe he wouldn't have it this time. That feelin' in the pit of me gut, in me chest.

Waiting ...

The girl-he didn't remember her name-slurred, "Ah, Dekko, that was just grand."

Bullshite.

She was some loose bird who hung with the junkie gang he'd fal en in with three years ago. Their city was unforgiving. Since then, half had died. The other half were like him: hankering for the next score, fleecing anything and anyone.

"Though for a spell," she muttered, "I thought ye weren't to come a'tal . ..." Then she passed out.

Declan yanked off his empty condom. I didn't. Already anticipating the misery to fol ow, he'd gnashed his teeth, struggling to finish like a man. And couldn't.

He gazed over at her, feeling the strain build. Wrong. Wrong girl beside him, wrong time, wrong place.

He rubbed the medal ion hanging from his neck, frantical y circling his thumb over it-

He shot upright, shoving his fist against his mouth to hold down whatever meager slop he'd forced himself to eat during the day. Chil s seized him, his muscles shaking.

He felt this way every time he was with a woman.

Hel , he felt a measure of the strain constantly. Whenever Declan woke, his anxiety was worse than the day before, as if acid seethed in his bel y and barbed wire cinched around his heart.

Tracks lined his arms; he could take or leave food even though he was still growing like a weed; bouts of nightmares plagued him.

For as long as he could remember, he'd had a frenzied sense that he was supposed to be doing something. No matter where he was, he felt like he was supposed to be some-where else.

And that strain was kil ing him.

After sex, it grew stronger, like a beast lived inside him, clawing at his insides to get free. Though only seventeen, he was ready to give up women altogether.

For now, he'd numb the feeling the only way he knew how. He reached toward the battered crate beside his mattress on the floor and plucked up the syringe that lay ready.

Why did he always expect to feel different after sex? When he knew better?

Because, Dekko, ye're not ready to admit ye're done as a man.

He frowned at the weight of the syringe in his hand. He'd been shooting he**in for three years, and knew it was too light. Dread seized him as he gazed down. Empty.

Rage building, he hurled the syringe across the room, then turned on the girl. Jostling her awake, he yel ed, "Ye feckin' slag! Ye stoled it?" That was all he'd had. No money to buy more.

She woke, mumbling, "Needed a wee bump-"

"Get out!" he roared, shoving her up and out on her arse, tossing her clothes at her before slamming the door in her face.

He punched the wal , moldy plaster exploding. Tonight he'd have the nightmares again. A monster at his back. Burning pain slicing through his chest. A woman's grief-stricken screams.

Those screams ...

Desperate to avoid those dreams, to numb the strain, he yanked on his pants and threw on a jacket, readying to leave. On his way out, he passed the bitch in the hal way, spat in her direction.

Half an hour later, he pleaded his case to his dealer: "Just a couple of quid's worth. Give me the shite now, and I'll fleece ye some of me mam's jewelry if I have to." Would he actual y steal from his own mother?

Oh, aye. But it'd take time to get to his parents' house and back.

The verdict: "Cash first, Dekko."

Declan would need even more time to fence the jewelry. Might take him a day to get back here with the scratch. He didn't have that long.

"I'm beggin'." He was about to vomit. The dealer clearly thought it was from withdrawal. No, from madness, more like. He'd do anything to avoid what awaited him. Anything. Others in his gang had no problem giving to get. With that in mind, he said, "There's got to be something I can give ye?"

His dealer's eyes widened with surprise. He hadn't known Declan Chase would suck for it.

I hadn't either. Could anything be worse than this feeling?

"Hie yer arse out o' me sight, Dekko." The man booted him in the back, sending him reeling out the door.

Unsure whether he was relieved or not, Declan scuffed back out into the streets.

When a biting wind blew in from the sea, his chil s worsened until his teeth chattered. With a despairing eye, he gazed around, tempted to break into a house right off the main strip, but everywhere he turned, bars covered the windows.

No choice but to set off for his parents' place. They were working-class; any jewelry of his mother's had been either handed down from her own mam or hard-earned by his da.

But she can't need it like I do.

An hour into his journey, Declan passed the run-down cathedral where he'd been an altar boy. At fourteen, he'd confessed his constant gut pains and tensions to the parish priest-a stern old codger who'd told him to keep his ailment to himself and find a vocation.

Declan had found he**in instead. He'd never told another what he grappled with every day. Not even his brother, Colm-not even before their fal ing-out.

His mam wouldn't be the first family member Declan had stolen from.

By the time he reached his parents' at three in the morning, he was quaking so hard his vision blurred.

He'd already vomited twice, laden with strain. Those screams ...

The front door was open, the house quiet. He eased inside, going straightaway to the kitchen, to the bottle of whiskey he knew he'd find in one of the cabinets. Might help him get through the next couple of hours. He lifted it, chugging-