But Declan didn't give a damn how they felt as long as they fol owed his orders.
As he strode down the ward, he stared down any prisoners who didn't avert their eyes. Did they sense something about him, as the vampire had? "You're no normal mortal," Lothaire had told him.
Paranoia had Declan running a gloved hand over the back of his neck.
His shite day only continued to worsen. He'd been off his game with Lothaire because of his encounter with the Valkyrie. And MacRieve's escape attempt just highlighted the security risks inherent in overcrowding.
Yet Webb continued to accept prisoners, disregarding Declan's repeated recommendations for culling. The two would discuss this soon. Either I run this place my way, or Webb should come take over.
Then Declan had a flash thought. What if Webb agreed with him-and wanted to terminate the Valkyrie?
So be it, he assured himself. Yet the idea sent a chil through him. And he didn't know why! His job, his purpose on this earth, was to destroy her kind, one at a time.
If he couldn't do it, then why was he here? Damn her, what hold did she have over him?
Tomorrow I plan to torture her. Yet I'm drawn to her, attracted to her as I've never been to another.
And he hated her for it.
Chapter THIRTEEN
"Hey, fresh meat!" a Ferine demon cal ed from his cel as a burly guard led Regin down the ward. "Not so high and mighty when you can't get to us, huh?"
Regin was cuffed, shaking off the effects of poisonous gas, and on her way to be either interrogated or vivisected.
Now demons were going to taunt her? She half-lunged, half-stumbled toward the cell.
"Easy, Valkyrie," the guard said, drawing her back in line. She believed some inmates had called him Vincente.
The demons shrank back from the glass. As she passed, she heard one say, "That Valkyrie made me eat a crab trap last summer."
Regin smirked. She'd thought she recognized him. Her smirk faded when she spied the occupant of the next cel over.
Carrow the Incarcerated, one of Regin's good friends and a party-hearty pal. The black-haired witch stood at the glass, forcing a smile. "It's like a bad hangover that won't stop, huh?"
Behind her was a sorceress Regin recognized, the Queen of Persuasion. Sorceri were tricksy, some good, some evil. "You all right in there?" Regin asked, as if she were still a badass Valkyrie bosswoman who'd fix the sitch otherwise.
Carrow nodded. "The sorceress is cool. So, you heading for an interrogation? Or an ... exam?"
Regin made with the stiff upper lip when she casual y said, "Dunno. Chase or Dixon. One of them will have my foot up their ass directly." She shrugged. "Catch you on the flip side, witch."
About ten cel s down from Carrow was Brandr- Aidan's kinsman. Who'd taken his vow to his leader and friend very seriously.
"Regin!" He leapt up from a bunk.
"Wel , well , the gang's all here." Nix must've given him Regin's whereabouts. Again.
"I'm going to get you out of here," he said, his green eyes aglow.
She snorted. "Let me know how that works out for you, Job MacBangup." Seeing Brandr here just brought her situation into stark relief. "It's curious though-you don't usual y show until it's time to bury him."
Brandr flinched, and immediately Regin felt guilty. Both of them had a role to play in this curse. Regin forever triggered Aidan's death. Brandr was forever too late to save him. No matter how hard that man tried.
Many in the Lore had begun to cal him Brandr the True.
In a milder tone, she said, "You know who brought me here?"
"Yes, it's him, though I barely believe it. Regin, just hold on. I'll figure something out ..."
Vincente forced her along the corridor.
When they passed the centaur king's cel , Volos pointed at Regin and slid his forefinger across his throat.
She replied, "Hey, didn't I see you in a donkey show down in Tijuana? No? You've got a twin then-"
"Move on," Vincente said warningly.
She gazed up at the guard. He looked like an ex-prizefighter-heavyweight-with a pronounced brow, a brick-end chin, and a five-o'clock shadow that she'd bet no razor could KO. He was dark-haired, his features a compel ing blend of Native American meets mafioso.
He was the first human here not to gaze at her with animosity.
"So, where are you taking me, big guy?" No answer.
Yesterday, guards had hauled Lothaire by after Chase had finished "interrogating" him. The vampire's shirt was ripped open, revealing skin seared to ash. His hooded red eyes had flashed to Regin, and he'd hissed something in Russian.
Lothaire was an enemy-one who'd hurt the Valkyrie in unimaginable ways-so it'd been impossible to muster up sympathy for him. She'd hissed back, "Do svidaniya, bitch."
Now it was Regin's turn for an appointment with either Declan or the mad scientist.
In a lower tone, she asked the man, "So am I going to get a zipper in my chest?"
Had there been a barely perceptible shake of his head?
"Am I about to be interrogated?"
Nothing. Shit, interrogation it is.
Soon after, he led her into an austere room with a camera in the ceiling, an obvious two-way mirror on one of the white wal s, and a table with two chairs in the center.
Vincente pointed to one of the chairs, the one bolted to the floor. "Sit."
"S'al the same, I think I'll stand-"
He shoved her down, hooking her cuffs to a bar in the back of the chair, immobilizing her.
Once she was all battened down, a tech in a white lab coat entered to sink an IV into Regin's arm. The clear line snaked up to a bag, most likely fil ed with some kind of pharmaceutical torture juice.
Regin got the gist. The interrogator would be able to push a button and serve a dose.
After Vincente and the tech had left, Chase entered, his expression drawn, his ink-black hair still wet from a recent shower. He'd shoved it back off his smooth-shaven face, revealing more of those chiseled features, as well as the thin scars that climbed up his cheek. Dark circles marred his chil ing gray eyes.
For all his faults, Declan Chase had a kind of sinister, wretched attractiveness. She took comfort in knowing that, for some reason, the man was as miserable as she currently was.
Without a word, he sat across from her. He wore his usual military threads, but today his wool pul over stretched tighter over his deep chest and broad shoulders. He was more muscled than she'd initially thought.
"Wel , don't you look all butch today?" When he shot her a kil ing look, she stomped one foot. "What?
What'd I say?" It'd been a compliment.