Have the metallurgist test for any mystical properties. The usual precautions—no one touches it. Return it before I question Lothaire.”
With a nod, the man took the box and exited.
Even after the warning that Webb’s call hadprovided, Declan turned back to the monitor for another look at the Valkyrie. She was sitting on the floor of her cell in front of the glass, resting her forehead and hands against it, as if she expected the door to open at any time.
Instead of feeling satisfaction to see her like this, he suffered more of that inexplicable conflict within him.
He’d done his duty with her. So why this … guilt? He clasped his aching forehead.
Why do I feel like I’m going mad?
If so, then it’d been a long time coming.
He’d always known he wasn’t a perfect soldier, had known he was fucked up. How could he not be? His days of torment had left him emotionally stunted, unclean. But he got the bloody job done, controlling his eccentricities and deviations with exhausting training regimens.
Every day, he worked out in his room, lifting weights with a punishing intensity, then he ran at least forty miles—half the width of the island. He ate only enough food to stave off the worst of his hunger.
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 call.
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 illicit.
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 eventually fell 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.
SEVEN
D eclan rolled 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 fallen 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’tall. …” Then she passed out.
Declan yanked off his empty condom.
I didn’t.
Already anticipating the misery to follow, 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 medallion hanging from his neck, frantically 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. Chills seized him, his muscles shaking.
He felt this way every time he was with a woman.
Hell, 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 belly and barbed wire cinched around his
With a nod, the man took the box and exited.
Even after the warning that Webb’s call hadprovided, Declan turned back to the monitor for another look at the Valkyrie. She was sitting on the floor of her cell in front of the glass, resting her forehead and hands against it, as if she expected the door to open at any time.
Instead of feeling satisfaction to see her like this, he suffered more of that inexplicable conflict within him.
He’d done his duty with her. So why this … guilt? He clasped his aching forehead.
Why do I feel like I’m going mad?
If so, then it’d been a long time coming.
He’d always known he wasn’t a perfect soldier, had known he was fucked up. How could he not be? His days of torment had left him emotionally stunted, unclean. But he got the bloody job done, controlling his eccentricities and deviations with exhausting training regimens.
Every day, he worked out in his room, lifting weights with a punishing intensity, then he ran at least forty miles—half the width of the island. He ate only enough food to stave off the worst of his hunger.
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 call.
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 illicit.
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 eventually fell 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.
SEVEN
D eclan rolled 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 fallen 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’tall. …” Then she passed out.
Declan yanked off his empty condom.
I didn’t.
Already anticipating the misery to follow, 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 medallion hanging from his neck, frantically 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. Chills seized him, his muscles shaking.
He felt this way every time he was with a woman.
Hell, 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 belly and barbed wire cinched around his
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