Valkyrie's Conquest (4 page)

And then—then they had stood in the faint glow of distant streetlights, breath heaving and skin glistening with sweat. She'd felt glorious and mighty, terrified and humbled. In that one fight, she'd learned the truth of battle songs and the sagas of her father's poets. She knew what it was to change a man's life—not just his death—with her sword.

She hadn't spoken to Bron in the sudden, echoing silence after battle. Instead, he'd leaned toward her—just the slightest of cues—and then she'd surged into his embrace. The dragon kissed as fiercely as he'd fought. She'd never felt that hunger of the flesh before, that burning in belly and breasts, or that urge to feel skin on skin as if touch was necessary to breathe. Nor had she felt the relief the press of lips could give. Not that the kiss began and ended there. He'd tasted her mouth, and cheeks, and throat with the concentration another man would give a feast of the finest delicacies. Every nerve in her body had fired until it seemed her skin glittered with sensation. It had left her weaker than any mere swordfight. Bron had all but slain her with pleasure.

She had parted from him without a word. Choice, rebellion, battle, desire—it was a lot for one night. She'd been too confused, too exhilarated to speak and somehow Bron had understood. He'd simply squeezed her hand.

She hadn't expected such delicacy from a dragon. It was as if he had read her soul.

Except she didn't have one.

That had been three days ago, and she hadn't seen Bron since. His absence was like an echoing well inside her, but she'd avoided returning to the streets until today. With so many new emotions to sort through, she'd needed time.

With a sigh, she rose to her feet, feeling the pinch of the unfamiliar high heels. They were ridiculous things, tall enough that every joint felt thrown out of place, but they were altogether too pretty to resist. Sometimes even reapers wanted to look beautiful.

It was then she sensed someone watching her, but not in a good way. Her muscles coiling with tension, Tyra turned slowly to search the shadows. At first, she saw nothing, but she was looking for petty human criminals in search of easy prey. It was only on her second look that she saw the demon slinking from behind the Dumpster, masking its telltale scent in the fog of rotting cabbage and stale pizza. Alarm crawled up her spine, chasing away the syrupy warmth of the afternoon sun.

It was a long, low, feline thing—it almost looked like a cat covered in pale green scales and was nearly as long as Tyra was tall. It leaped to the roof of the Dumpster, its claws scraping on the rusted metal.

Tyra's only weapon was a knife hidden at the small of her back. Long training sent her mind clicking through options—no Valkyrie, even unarmed, was helpless. She sucked in a deep breath of the stinking air, forcing her limbs to be loose and ready for action. She did not turn and run. Showing fear was the quickest way to invite death.

“Hello, little death angel,” said the demon. The thing spoke in her mind, its voice silky and low.

“Demons do not walk in the day,” she said, forcing irritation into her voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I grew bored.”

“By the old laws—”

“Old laws are old,” it growled. “Eventually they wear out.”

“The code is the word of the Allfather. He punishes disobedience.”

The demon's tail lashed, long and whip-like as a rat's. “What do I care for a faded god from a forgotten age? The armies of the shadow world are stronger than ever.”

“They were quick to flee the other night.”

“We took Odin's measure, nothing more. It will take more than antique spells to keep us imprisoned in the dark. It is time for change.”

“That's a declaration of war.” Tyra's heart pounded, her palms sweaty with alarm as the demon crouched atop the Dumpster. She swallowed, eager and afraid at once.

“It's a statement of fact, Valkyrie. Just like the fact that you should be fleeing for your life.” Its hindquarters wiggled as it prepared to pounce.

“Your kind won't attack the Valkyrie.”

“Oh?” It sprang, black claws extended.

Tyra dropped and rolled out of its path, kicking off her shoes before she broke an ankle. She pulled the knife from its sheath and was in a crouch by the time it landed and scrabbled to turn and face her. As the creature bared its dripping yellow fangs, her knife looked pitifully small. She would be insane to stand and fight—but better to be crazy than a coward.

With a bound, she sprang forward, swiping at the demon's eyes. It scuttled backward with a yowl of dismay. It gave her just enough time to summon her wings. They blossomed from her back, spreading wide and beating the air. She didn't want to fly over the rooftops in full view of the daylight city, but they got her out of reach of the slashing fangs.

The demon sprang into the air, reaching for her with its claws. She kicked out, forgetting that she'd shed her heels. The sole of her foot glanced off the demon's scaly paw, but did no damage. Tyra twisted out of the way, barely escaping with her skin intact.

Flying in the alley was awkward at best. It was too narrow, the air currents all wrong. She'd barely gained another foot or two when she heard the skitter of claws and a bone-shivering snarl. She knew without looking that the creature would pounce again. With all her might she strained upward, launching herself at the nearest building. Like its neighbors, it was abandoned, the windows boarded over like row upon row of sleeping eyes. She grabbed the carved ledge that ran above the street level, hauling herself up to stand on the crumbling stone. Almost two stories above the ground, Tyra balanced cautiously. The bricks were rough against her hands, the stone cool and gritty against her bare feet. The demon paced beneath, tail lashing. She had barely escaped.

And then the creature turned its smoldering, scarlet eyes upward. “You cannot evade me forever, Valkyrie. I can already taste your flesh.”

“Not today, hellspawn.” Tyra said it under her breath, and yet she was certain it heard her as it stretched its front paws up the bricks in a futile effort to reach her. She had a sudden, awful thought that it might be able to climb. She began creeping along the ledge, hoping to leave the deserted alleyway behind.

It trotted along below, barely hurrying as it gave her a toothy leer. “You think a crowd will save you.”

“I would worry about your own safety, imp,” she said coolly, reaching the next avenue. She stopped, getting her bearings. It took all her nerve to force down a wave of panic—not from the danger the demon posed, but the fact that it was there at all.
In daylight! Attacking her, a Valkyrie!
It was as if someone had pulled a thread and her world was unraveling like cheap cloth. Coppery fear soured her mouth.

The demon flicked its pointed ears. “You're wrong if you think I won't venture into a crowd of humans.”

“You're alone. That wouldn't be smart. Humans might be weaker than you or me, but they have the advantage of numbers.”

The demon didn't answer that one.

There were a few cars below, and she waited for them to pass before leaping into the air and gliding to the next building. This one was low and all she had to do was run along its flat rooftop. She cut across it diagonally, hoping to lose her new friend. When she reached the edge, she jumped. Her first instinct was to fly to safety.

She gained altitude, remembering too late that it was still daylight and she was clearly visible to anyone looking out their window. She invoked an invisibility spell—such magic was hugely tiring and only worked against mortals, but it was better than the alternative. Few things troubled the breakfast table of the Allfather, but a front page shot of a disheveled Valkyrie floating above the rush hour traffic would do it.

But then, because now Tyra wasn't actually looking for Bron, she saw him turn into a coffee shop a block ahead, his dark head held as high as if he owned the place. A rush of pleasure almost startled her from the steady rhythm of her flight. Logic said to go to the Allfather first—a rebel demon on the loose was an urgent situation—but reason buckled. Bron had fought by her side, and the need to warn him—and just to be close to him again—made her change course at once.

She landed with a gentle glide, her wings dissolving has her feet touched the ground. She dropped the invisibility spell, startling a woman who was texting on her cell phone. The woman stepped around her, barely looking up. Tyra grimaced. Mortals truly were oblivious to the forces around them. With a muttered oath, she hurried toward the coffee shop.

Tyra had never been in one of the coffee seller's shops before. The strong scent of the brew made her nose twitch as she pushed her way through the crowd inside. A hiss of steam filled the air, sending up clouds of vapor. It was the perfect place to find a dragon.

In fact, Bron's height made him easy to spot. He was picking up a drink from the counter and walking toward one of the spindly, glass-topped tables. Tyra intercepted him halfway there, a sudden, girlish fluttering in her stomach.

She stepped into his path, nearly bumping into the hard wall of his massive chest. In that instance, the butterflies vanished and his sudden, solid presence made her wonder what she was doing.
No Valkyrie should be feeling such weakness. You should not even be capable of it!
She schooled her face, hoping it didn't show, but still felt a humiliating rush of heat to her cheeks. Suddenly all she could think about was kissing him again.

“We need to speak,” she announced.

Bron blinked his golden eyes. “Hello to you, too.”

“We have no time for pleasantries,” she snapped.

“Oh?” He calmly sipped from the huge paper cup he held, licking foam from his upper lip. “What's up?”

She watched his tongue, beset with a rush of irritation and desire. This was no moment for him to be indulging in human trivialities. At the same time, the rich scent of the place was twining in her blood with Bron's magnetic presence. She felt bewitched and needy and out of control. To make matters worse, he was looking at her as if she, too, might be on the menu. She needed to get the situation in hand before she embarrassed herself.

“What is that drink?” Without waiting for an answer, she took it from him and swallowed a mouthful. It was scalding, but not so hot she couldn't taste the creaminess of it. It swirled through her mouth with the lingering sweetness of honey, but darker. It did nothing to help her overloaded senses. She thrust the cup back at him. “This is no warrior's drink.”

Bron quirked an eyebrow. “Would you prefer blood out of the skull of your enemy?” His tone was sarcastic, but gently so.

Tyra blew out her breath. “At least I would understand it.”

For a moment neither spoke, but it was hardly silent. People jostled past with food and drink, the noise of machines and voices bouncing off the high ceiling. Tyra could barely think. It was like the din and crush of battle, except there was no way to fight back.

“You're trembling,” Bron said gently. “And you're barefoot. Something happened.”

“I am not!”

He pushed her backward, steering her into a chair. “You're not wearing any shoes.”

She automatically looked down. Her feet were grimy, her hands knotted in her lap. He was right; she was trembling. All at once, she felt ready to crack. “I'm not used to the human world. I'm not used to…”
I'm not used to you. I shouldn't be capable of feeling what I do. Something is wrong with me
.

“I know,” he said, sliding into a chair so close that their knees brushed. “For the first months after I left the mountains, everything was overwhelming.”

A stranger passed close enough that his coat dragged across her arm. The lack of personal space in the coffee shop was suffocating. She looked up, meeting Bron's amber gaze. “But you're a dragon. You have so much fire and strength.”

One corner of his mouth curled up. “What did that matter? There was too much choice, too many things I didn't understand.”

“It's not being here that's the problem.”

He reached out a comforting hand, covering both of hers in one of his. His palm was warm and rough with hard work. Tyra's breath caught. This was different than his hungry touch after their battle with the demons. This was—kind. She had fought men and she had healed them, but no man had ever touched her like this, offering simple comfort. She was mesmerized in an entirely new way.

Tyra gulped air. It was impossible not to want those strong, tanned fingers all over her skin. Around her. Inside her. In places no man had a right to touch. The strength of that desire unnerved her, and she looked away. The din of the place threatened to engulf her again, but Bron's presence held her in a bubble, as if his will alone kept the world at bay.

“Then what's wrong?” he asked, leaning closer.

You
. His breath fanned her face, and she could smell the sweet coffee. It would have been too easy to turn her head, press her lips to his once more. But that overwhelming urge went against everything she was. Valkyries didn't love and, despite the burn at the back of her eyes, they didn't cry. She didn't understand how, but Bron had stricken her with hopeless longing. She didn't recognize herself.

His lips brushed her cheek, and Tyra reeled. She turned to protest, but then his mouth was on hers. The world stopped. There was just his silken, hot kiss against hers.

Up to that moment, he must have been holding himself back because here was the fire she'd been afraid of. Even their first kiss had been nothing like this.

If the first press of his lips had been a request, the second was a demand. He plundered tongue and teeth, stoking the hot, surging need in her blood. There was no defense. The sheer proud maleness of him, demanding submission, stole her breath. But it also roused her warrior instincts, insisting that she hold her own—and then everything got so much better. She tugged and teased, biting his top lip, then the bottom, making her unspoken demands just as outrageous as his. He leaned in, clearly enjoying the battle. One hand slid around her waist.