Valkyrie's Conquest (5 page)

A surge of heat began low in her body, tightening the muscles of her belly. Slowly, it worked its way upward, spreading tendrils of need through her core, peaking her breasts and drawing a moan from deep in her throat. The sound made Bron's hand tighten around her ribs, pulling her yet closer.

Another body pushing by banged her with a knapsack. It suddenly occurred to Tyra she was in an embrace—in public. Every muscle turned to stone with tension.
What am I doing?

She had abandoned every scrap of self-discipline, and there was so much else to worry about besides her own desires. She pulled away, balling her hands into fists. “Forgive me. I forget myself.”

“I thought you were just discovering who you are.” Bron's grin was lazy, but as he regarded her, his smile faded to seriousness. “What's going on?”

“It's the demons. One tried to attack me just now, in full daylight. Such a thing is unheard of.”

Bron frowned, suddenly all business. “What should we do?”

Tyra didn't miss the fact that he'd included himself, but she needed distance between them. A new and terrible emotion was growing—one she thought might be guilt. And then anger came behind that one, because after centuries of doing everything she was told, she should have been able to enjoy a simple kiss.

She rose, forcing herself to be brisk. “I must go to Odin Allfather.”

He rose with her, abandoning his drink. “You can't tell me this and then walk away. I'm coming with you.”

That was the last thing she wanted right then, but the commotion of the coffee shop was wearing her down. “Let's talk outside.”

Tyra shouldered her way to the door, knowing without looking that Bron was right behind her. With relief, she pushed the glass door open and almost ran onto the sidewalk, away from the noise and thick coffee smell. A car horn blared, but that was so common in the city she barely noticed it until a woman screamed.

Tyra whirled just as Bron gave a shout of alarm. Neither was fast enough to stop the demon leaping for her throat, black claws hooked like scythes.

Chapter Five

Bron lunged for the demon, grabbing it from the air with his bare hands before it could set a paw on Tyra. “You dare, hellspawn?”

He used the momentum to smash it to the ground, driving it into the concrete with pure, furious strength. In human form, he shouldn't have been able to do it, but rage lent him force. Only two things mattered right then: Tyra's kiss—and how to repeat that experience—and punishing the creature that threatened her.

And he'd done it with no thought to the people around him. Only Tyra had mattered, but now the humans crowded around the coffee shop were screaming and running. A few were taking pictures, but Tyra was pushing those away. They had no idea what the green-scaled monster could do. Demons ate souls with as much pleasure as the humans slurped their double caramel lattes with chocolate shavings and extra cream.

The demon reared up, jaws snapping so close to Bron's face he felt the brush of the long, yellow fangs. He smashed downward with his fist, using it like a hammer on the creature's skull. That crushed it back against the ground, but not before it kicked up with its hind paws, raking Bron's forearm to a bloody mess. He swore as hot pain turned his vision white.

“Hold it down!” Tyra cried, lifting one of the wrought iron chairs from the café.

Her demand was enough to make Bron forget his agony and do as she asked.

She struck the chair against the sidewalk, smashing over and over until one of the iron legs came free. Then she wielded that like a club, bringing it down two-handed on the writhing creature. It hit home, but it only made the thing squirm more. It was nothing but muscle and slippery scales, as agile as a snake. The spreading slick of Bron's blood on its hide made the demon even harder to hold.

“By the Flame!” he cursed as it slithered out of his grasp, bounding to its feet.

With horror, he saw a human woman filming everything with her phone. She was almost in the path of the demon as it bolted. One paw shot out, dragging the woman off balance. The phone flew from her hand as she went down, her mouth an
O
of utter surprise.

Bron roared, summoning his dragon form, but it was too late. The demon's jaws clamped on the woman's throat, pulling something free. To Bron's eyes it looked like a scarf of gauzy gold silk, but he knew better. The demon's blue-black tongue whipped out, lassoing the substance into its maw like stringy cheese. It was over in a moment, new light flaring in the creature's yellow eyes. Wounded as it was, it had needed energy to heal. The woman's soul had been too convenient to resist.

Tyra shrieked in anger, racing forward with her makeshift weapon raised, but Bron was there first, shifting and reforming in full dragon glory. Rising up on his hind legs, he was taller than the lampposts, taller than the building. His body was the size of one of the trucks screeching to a halt on the streets, and his long neck and tail meant he could stretch clear across the lanes of traffic. His snake-like tail ended in a cluster of wicked spikes and huge, bat-like wings fanned the air with a leathery whoosh. And Bron, alone of all the dragons of the Flameborn clan, was a dragon of pure blood red.

The demon scrambled to run, but Bron lashed out, snatching it up in his jaws. It tasted foul as he shook it the way a cat shakes a rat, finally tossing the limp form through the air. The front window of the coffee shop shattered, bits of glass glittering in the black, oily dust left behind as the demon's form exploded as it died.

If the humans had been running before, they scrambled twice as hard now that a huge scarlet dragon had appeared in their midst. And it was just as well because two more of the cat-like demons appeared from the shadows.

Tyra held them at bay, wielding the chair leg as she moved with the grace of flowing water. She circled, spun and jabbed, her long golden hair streaming behind her. Her beauty and strength stole Bron's breath. Clearly she was a master with a sword, but she could not gain an advantage against two demons—not with a makeshift weapon. Bron saw one shifting its position bit by bit, angling itself to attack the moment her back was turned to deal with its twin.

Anger, black and hard as coal, burned in Bron's gut. He darted forward, quick despite his size, and released a flick of flame at the creature. It scampered backward, but so did Tyra, clearly frightened by the fire. Bron stopped at once, almost sucking in his own flame. She clearly did not like fire.

Then pain twisted her features as bare feet found the broken glass. It was a moment's distraction, but it gave the other demon the opening it needed. It raced toward her, going in low to avoid the thrust of her weapon. Tyra recovered, matching its feint with her own parry, but blood bloomed where its claws had slashed her side. A cry of pain escaped her, but the rhythm of her movements didn't hitch. She brought the iron weapon up in a smooth arc and stabbed it down two-handed, driving it right through the demon's spine. It exploded to nothing in an unearthly scream that shattered the globes of the lamppost.

The sight of Tyra's blood incensed Bron, calling forth a primal need to protect. He rose up, his neck arched and fangs bared, tail lashing in a deadly, spiked arc. When the second demon rushed at Tyra, intent on the kill, it was the creature's last action. Bron tore into it, crushing it beneath his claw-tipped feet before tossing it into traffic to be smashed to dust.

Some of the oncoming cars flashed blue and red lights. Doors flew open, uniformed men piled out and drew their guns. Tyra had slumped to the ground, her hands pressed to her wound. Blood streamed between her fingers and pooled on the sidewalk.

Bron wasted no time. He spread his wings, lifting from the ground in a mighty rush of wind. He snatched her up in his talons, holding her with as much care as he would a delicate artwork of blown glass. Bron turned as he rose, angling his body between Tyra and the armed humans below. A few fired, but their aim was poor. The rest remained frozen, mouths open in astonishment.

Bron spiraled up into the sky, assessing his options. Tyra was hurt—badly. He wasn't about to entrust her to just anyone's care, but he had little time to decide where to turn for help. He flew up and up, breaking through the haze of pollution and clouds and into the sun-drenched crystal of the late afternoon sky. The air up here was clean and knife-sharp with cold. He held Tyra close, letting the heat of his dragonfire warm her. Worry ate at him. She was unconscious, but now and again he heard her mutter something he couldn't make out.

Whatever she was saying, though, must have been the key to opening the pathway he needed. Without warning, a magnificent bridge appeared, linking the sky with something far above. Bron angled toward it. Dragons were hard to impress, but it was impossible not to marvel at the glittering rainbow made of frost. As he followed its span upward, speeding as fast as he could, a long, mournful note sang in the air. At the top of the arch stood a giant in a winged helmet, guarding the entrance to the land above. In one hand he held a great coiled horn made from a creature Bron could barely imagine. The giant called out a challenge, but Bron flew high over his head, his wings eating the winds.

And then a new landscape took form below—not one of cities, but one of fjords and mountains, icebergs and steel-blue seas. Up ahead, at the tip of a jagged peak, the Allfather waited, a grey cloak billowing behind him. This was the realm of Asgard.

Bron steeled himself to explain to a god what exactly had happened to his daughter.

* * *

“I demand to see her!” Bron pounded on the door of the Healer's Hall, but it had been barred against him. “I demand to know if she is well!”

The blank slab of oak remained mute, nearly driving him to madness. He wanted Tyra in his arms, to touch the silk of her pale skin and reassure himself that she was still warm and breathing. Bron could still taste coffee on his lips from the kiss they'd shared. He could still feel the warmth of her breath feathering against his cheek. He clenched his teeth until his jaw muscles ached.

He briefly contemplated turning back into a dragon and tearing down the door, but it hardly seemed the way to win the people of Asgard over. He raised his fist to pound again when the door swung open and a tall woman emerged and thrust a bundle of clothes at him. Bron took them out of reflex.

“Cover yourself, dragon,” said the woman. She was dressed in fighting leathers and carried a black sword. She was tall and fair with the same high cheekbones as Tyra, but her cool blue eyes were not friendly. Her gaze drifted southward, taking in Bron's naked form. One fair eyebrow quirked in appraisal.

“How is Tyra?” he demanded.

“She will recover. I am Sigrid, her sister.” She raised her gaze with some effort. “Go to the feast hall and find yourself food and drink. I will let you know when she is fit to see you.”

The door slammed again, and he heard the thunk of the iron bar that locked him out. Bron dropped the bundle of clothes, balling his fingers into fists. There was a helpless ache in his chest unlike anything he'd ever felt before. Nothing would ease it until he held Tyra in his arms.

“There is a saying that even dragons have nightmares,” said Odin, appearing from nowhere at Bron's elbow.

Bron jumped, then scowled to hide it. The Allfather had the appearance of an old man, with long gray hair and a patch over one blue eye. Still, there was nothing weak about him. He looked fit enough to wrestle a bear.

“Everyone has nightmares,” said Bron. “Especially dragons. After all, we hold enough fire in our bellies to burn down the world.”

He grabbed at the fallen clothes, pulling them on with haste. They were simple but good quality, more than a fair replacement for the ones he'd lost when he'd shifted to his dragon form.

“Walk with me, Bron of the Flameborn,” Odin gestured with his staff toward a meadow, where the first stars pricked an indigo sky.

As they walked together, Odin studied him, his one eye keen and glittering. A raven flew down from the branches above, and Odin stroked its shining feathers. “Do you understand what Tyra is?”

“A Valkyrie. A reaper of warriors' souls.”

“And my maiden daughter.”

Bron could hear the unspoken message:
She is not for the likes of you
.

“I trust that you are merely comrades in arms,” Odin said acidly.

Bron bristled, but stepped around that trap. “She's a good fighter. It is an honor to battle at her side.” And then he remembered Odin forbade the Valkyries to join his demon war.

Odin fell silent for so long that Bron wondered if the conversation was over. But then Odin spoke in an almost distant tone, as if he was remembering something from long ago. “Do not imagine that my daughter will ever offer you more than her sword. At the time of their creation, I wrought a spell that repressed the Valkyries' souls.”

Thunderstruck, Bron stopped dead in his tracks. “You did
what
?”

Odin held up a hand to silence his outrage. “They are perfect, untainted and indestructible. Sworn entirely to the service of my glory. There was a time when they would not even bleed when wounded.”

Bron's vision had gone red with anger. “Tyra bled. She was close to death when we arrived.”

“And she is the purest of them.” Odin closed his eye as if the starlight pained him. “My spells fade, and my daughters turn weak and vulnerable.”

Odin thought Tyra was weak? Bron struggled to get his temper under control. “Maybe the loss of your magic will bring a different kind of strength.”

Odin looked away so quickly that Bron was sure his words had struck a nerve. “You risk much, dragon,” said the Allfather, “but you saved her. This once I will forgive your insolence.”

Part of Bron considered that reason enough to keep going, but his smarter instincts told him to shut up. He released his breath in a rush. He would let Odin interpret his silence any way the god liked.