Valkyrie's Conquest by Sharon Ashwood Page A

crouch. Then he wished he hadn’t. Now that he was on the ground, he detected the stink of demons—a peculiar dry smell that spelled the absence of all life, like dry rot and old, shriveled-up snakes. Was that what he’d seen vanishing into the shadows? His body tensed, an instinctive growl rising from his chest. Dragons weren’t afraid of much, but hellspawn made him wary.
    Bron ran to the figure sprawled on the ground, turning him over. Blood soaked the man’s uniform, obscuring detail, but Bron recognized the badge of one of the human police. The cop was in his prime, fit and muscular, but no match for the monsters who’d torn him open. A dull, flat anger surged through Bron, knotting his hands into fists. With a curse, he tore the man’s bloody shirt apart, scattering buttons across the dirty pavement. The savage wound beneath made his stomach sink. The man was alive, but barely.
    â€œPlease stop. It’s too late,” said the woman, who was now standing a few feet away.
    Bron jerked his head up, surprised by her silent approach. Her wings had vanished, as if they melted to nothing when she didn’t need them.
    â€œToo late?” he repeated. “We interrupted the hellspawn’s kill.”
    â€œYes, they fled. Lesser demons are easily frightened by someone with more than human power.” Her fine-boned face was grave. “Nevertheless, he will be dead in seconds. There is nothing you can do.”
    â€œHow do you know that?” Bron asked, seized by a sudden, stubborn need to contradict her. But she was right. His beast-self could already smell death in the air.
    â€œI can help him,” she said.
    â€œHow? You just said he was beyond our aid.” Reluctantly, he rose to his feet. She was nearly as tall as he was, but she still had to tilt her chin up to meet his eyes. They stood like that for a moment, facing off across the dying man. She was every bit as beautiful as he’d expected, her bright hair tumbling around an oval face with large, luminous eyes and a softly kissable mouth. But everything had changed since he’d seen her from the church roof. A moment ago, she’d been an enticing curiosity. Now, despite her claims of help, he wondered if she might be a foe.
    â€œI’ve come for his soul.” She shifted her grip on the sword and brought the point up until it rested against Bron’s chest. “Please step away. I wouldn’t want to cut away yours by mistake.”
    * * *
    The stranger brushed the blade away as casually as if it were made of straw. Tyra caught her breath, though she schooled her face to hide her surprise. She stepped around the wounded man, whipping the sword up again until the blade kissed the vulnerable spot under the stranger’s ear. His hand shot forward, fearlessly grabbing the blade and pulling her close. The move was utterly unexpected. Within seconds, they had become locked together, his hand clamped around her wrist. He was strong enough her fingers began to go numb.
    â€œLet go of me!” she said in an icy voice.
    â€œNo.”
    Silently, she calculated the vulnerable points she could reach with her free hand, perhaps with her feet, but the man’s stance was well-guarded. An experienced fighter, then. “I will not hesitate to kill you if I must.”
    He didn’t budge, though his dark eyebrows rose. “Are you sure you want to try?”
    Tyra felt a flutter of uncharacteristic alarm. She was well able to look after herself, but this interloper radiated force, both physical and supernatural. As little as she cared to admit it, that kind of power drew her. It left her feeling like Thor’s magic hammer, inexorably pulled back to the thunder god’s hand no matter how far or hard he threw it. Trapped. Tethered. Fascinated.
    And disgusted. Her work was hard enough without a stranger turning her as sheep-witted as a mortal.
    â€œWho are you?” he asked. His voice