Читать книгу Valkyrie's Conquest - Sharon Ashwood - Страница 8

Chapter One

A beautiful woman who could fly? Now that interested Bron even more than a pretty face.

His lips parted in fascination, Bron watched her from atop his perch on the cathedral roof, where he sat lounging against one of the large stone gargoyles. She swooped from the sky with the swiftness of a comet, her translucent wings sending rainbows through the purple twilight.

Details were sketchy at this distance, but Bron could see the soaring figure was shapely with a mass of long golden hair streaming behind her. The fading light glinted on a breastplate made of silver links. Beneath that she wore a leather tunic and supple boots that left her lithe limbs bare. To borrow a human term, she was hot—and in response, Bron felt the dragonfire within him smolder with interest.

“What do you think?” he asked the gargoyle. “Should I say hello, one winged creature to another?”

The gargoyle, being no more than a stone statue, did not reply but remained hunched on the rooftop, sticking out a forked tongue at no one in particular. Bron watched as the woman streaked past the half-finished condominiums across the way, past the construction cranes and flashing billboards and old-fashioned neon signs that crowned the streets.

“The sword makes a statement,” he muttered, eyeing the enormous blade slung across her back. “I think it might be go away.”

Her wings stretched wide as she banked and dove toward the rivers of cars below. The city lights were coming to life, spangling the darkness like a sudden scattering of stars and turning those wings into glowing, insubstantial veils. Before he realized it, he had risen to his feet, wanting, needing to keep her in sight.

Don’t be a fool. Whatever she was up to, it wasn’t Bron’s affair. He was a dragon shifter, a creature of scales, fire and fang. He was master of his own wanderings and had left the claustrophobic tangle of dragon politics behind. Why get mixed up with anyone else’s wars? But cutting ties with his den meant leaving everyone he knew behind, and the solitude was getting to him. A pretty woman—even one brandishing a weapon—would be an improvement on talking to statues.

“I’ve been told a touch of risk adds spice to a liaison.” Bron gave the stone gargoyle a pat on its cold, hard flank. “And who can resist a dragon when he chooses to be charming?”

With that, he began running along the rooftops, leaping from one to the next with a strength and agility that would have made humans gape had they looked up to see it. Even so, he barely kept the winged woman in view as she dove into the crevasse between sparkling towers. It would have been easier to shift, but dragons were nothing if not obvious. This close to street level, it made sense to remain in human form.

He followed her down, springing to lower and lower rooftops until he too was deep in the valley that stretched between skyscrapers. Traffic surged beneath, noisy and stinking but vital as blood to the sprawling metropolis.

Bron followed his quarry to a pocket of shadowed streets, one thick with refuse and danger in equal measure. She finally landed in a parking lot behind a diner, her boots thumping on the roof of a beat-up sedan. The lot was surrounded by a square of grimy brick walls tagged with graffiti. Garbage drifted along the base of the walls as if an invisible tide had left it there. On the north side, among the crumpled paper and crushed beer cans, sprawled a bleeding man.

Bron’s mood swerved. He’d come in hopes of flirtation, but this was serious. He took another leap, landing on a flat roof two stories above the pavement. The winged woman, still atop the car, was directly below. She stood with the sword gripped loosely in one hand, looking fixedly at a corner between the buildings. Something dark was moving there—something that was slinking away.

Bron dropped lightly to the ground, landing in 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.

“Please 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.

“Too late?” he repeated. “We interrupted the hellspawn’s kill.”

“Yes, 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.”

“How 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.

“I can help him,” she said.

“How? 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.

“I’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.

“Let go of me!” she said in an icy voice.

“No.”

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.

“Who are you?” he asked. His voice was deep enough to send a shiver through her bones, reminding her again of the thunder god.

She gripped her sword a fraction tighter, fighting the pressure of his fingers. “I am Tyra of the Valkyrie, daughter of Odin Allfather.”

She waited for his look of awe, for surely all had heard of Odin, almighty king of the northern gods of Asgard. But the dragon showed curiosity, nothing more. “I am Bron of the Flameborn dragon clan,” he replied.

A dragon! Against her better judgment, Tyra took a second look. He was as tall and broad as any warrior, his hair dark and his features cleanly carved. He stood like the prow of a warship—proud, direct, and stern. Her whole body tingled as if lightning were about to strike.

Dragons meant fire—one of the few things that could kill her kind. Tyra thrust against him, freeing herself as she stumbled back. The Allfather had granted her only the barest trace of emotions when he made her. She wasn’t sure if it was fear she felt, or something else.

“I asked you to step away.” Thankfully, her voice sounded as cool and steady as her blade. “I have a job to do. Do not interfere.”

“Answer my questions first.”

She drew back again, wanting an extra few feet to compose herself. Her wrist throbbed. “What questions?”

“What do you want with this man’s soul?” He pointed to the figure at his feet.

This time she let her tone grow arctic. “I mean to rescue him from death. You’re stopping me.”

Bron gave a long, slow blink. His eyes were a startling shade of amber, like gems in firelight. “Are you telling me the truth?”

“Of course. That is what Valkyries do. We gather the spirits of slain heroes and take them to our father’s feast hall. But if you interfere much longer, the soul will fly to the realms of the dead before I can take it.”

The dragon seemed to weigh her words for a long moment, but finally stepped aside. “Then save him.”

As if she needed his permission! But Tyra swallowed her retort and wasted no time. Catching her lip between her teeth, she bent over the fallen man and reached into the dying man’s chest to take hold of his soul. With a twinge of satisfaction she felt it, tingling and vibrant. For an instant she experienced flashes of the man’s life—the joy of laughing children, the exhilaration of his first ride on a motorcycle, the urgency of lovemaking for the first time.

She glanced up. Bron was watching her with wide eyes, and heat burned her cheeks once more. To keep the Valkyries obedient, the Allfather had denied them a soul, along with all the useless, turbulent emotions that would distract them from their work. But now, while she was in direct contact with a human’s spirit, Tyra could feel everything. She had noticed Bron from the moment he’d arrived—more than any male she’d ever met—but now she experienced the full force of his presence. Her gaze wandered up and down his frame, wondering what hidden gifts his dragon nature had bestowed. A new type of ache, liquid and honeyed, began to pool in her belly, as sweet as it was disturbing. So this is what it is to want a man!

But there was one more memory left in the dying man’s soul. Tyra rocked back with the harsh surprise of a bullet tearing through flesh. Terror flooded her, souring her mouth. Pain lit her every nerve with the echo of his agony. Such loss and heartbreak! With a gasp, she gave one last pull, collecting the soul before its touch overwhelmed her.

The soul came away easily, though it struggled to escape the moment her sword severed the shining tether that bound spirit to body. Tyra panted hard from the rush of conflicting, unfamiliar emotions.

“What have you done?” Bron demanded. “I don’t see anything.”

“Just wait and watch.” A jumble of shyness and confusion galloped through Tyra, leaving her skin hot as if it had burned in the sun. It was embarrassing, as if she had drunk one too many horns of honey wine. Still, she felt a pang as the desire, fear and longing slipped through her grasp, leaving only a fractured memory behind. Her eyes stung and she closed them, and in a beat the awkwardness had passed. She was back to what she had been before—a soulless creature with only the barest shreds of feeling to trouble her heart.

And then only her work remained. The soul became visible slowly, emerging first as a faint outline of the man, as if someone had sketched him in glowing pencil. Then the outline filled in, a bit at a time, to become as dark and solid as the body on the ground, except now his uniform was whole and clean. Bron murmured a long string of words she didn’t know, but the wonder in them was clear.

The whole time, Tyra clasped the soul’s hand, holding him close to her side. She liked to think her firm hold gave her charges a comforting anchor in those first few moments of their new lives. Or maybe it was just her need to understand. Humans were extraordinary beings, with spirits that granted them eternity. Despite her powers, if she were slain, or if the Allfather cast her aside, she would simply cease to exist.

Once the man was solid, she turned to him. “I have come for you, Gregory Macdonald, to take you to Valhalla, the Allfather’s mead hall. It is time for you to claim your seat in the host of fallen heroes, to drink and sing songs of glory and to fight alongside my father’s warriors.”

Macdonald was staring down at his own body and swearing with all the force of abject terror. “I was stabbed,” he said, his voice hollow. “Clawed.”

“You were killed by demons,” Tyra corrected him.

“Demons?” the man repeated slowly, goggling at her in confusion.

Bron just looked angry. “Why are demons roaming loose in the city?”

“This place was not always a city,” Tyra explained. “For thousands of years, the warriors of Odin Allfather have battled the armies of the dark god, and much of the war has happened right here.”

“Say what?” Macdonald asked.

Bron frowned. “Why have I never heard of this before now?”

Tyra shook her head. “The dragons have ever kept to their own affairs.”

“You might have written,” Bron said reasonably. “Fate of the world and all that.”

“It is a matter for gods and heroes,” Tyra replied.

“And yet you take casualties to add to your father’s army,” said the dragon. “It seems to be a matter for humankind as well.”

“Dragons?” said Macdonald. “Just asking.”

Tyra gave both men a quelling glance. “We only take the souls of mighty warriors. There are rules both sides have agreed to. The hellspawn cannot use weapons other than sword and spear. And they cannot disturb the Valkyries in their work.”

“And the demons obey these rules?” Bron’s voice declared his doubt.

Tyra wavered. She might have said that they had, until recently. The war was changing in subtle ways that worried her and that Odin Allfather would not admit to. More dead. Bolder demons. The age of the gods was over and the balance of power was shifting. But she wasn’t about to complain to a random dragon, however much he had compelled her notice.

Which he should never have done. She wanted nothing more than distance between them.

“The rules are as iron,” she said in a voice equally hard. “And they do not include dragons.”

Bron’s amber eyes narrowed. “As you wish.”

That gaze was as hot as the lick of dragon fire. Tyra shuddered. “Go in peace, Bron of the Flameborn. Keep to your own affairs.”

And with that, she unfurled her wings and launched into the air, setting course for Valhalla with the soul in tow. She looked down only once. Bron stood in the parking lot, arms folded and with his face tilted up, watching her go.

With disturbing clarity, Tyra remembered wanting him. There had been a rush of longing, a desire to comb her fingers through that thick, dark hair and to feel his lips against hers. To touch skin to skin, as no Valkyrie ever would. The fleeting desire had been so acute, she could remember every detail.

Almost as if it wasn’t a memory at all.