Valkyrie's Conquest (6 page)

After a moment, Odin went on. “Demons no longer obey my laws because they no longer fear my magic. The old order fails, and there will be chaos.”

“There are others you could call. You do not need to fight alone.”

“Who would I call?”

“There are the Valkyries. There are dragons.”

Odin cast a glance at him. “I do not think much of your kind, hiding in the mountains and shunning the rest of the world. You had nerve enough to bring my daughter here when she needed aid, but true heroes are more than flame and shiny scales.”

The arrogance of the statement surprised a laugh out of Bron. Dragon magic was strong, their culture rich, and their warriors beyond measure—but Odin Allfather saw nothing but his own renown. “And the war is a matter for gods and heroes and no one else is fit to help?”

“Do you have a different answer?”

“I chose to leave the mountains. I could choose to help you. Whether you accept my assistance is your decision.”

Odin gave him a look from his one good eye. “You have nerve, dragon. I wonder if your fire is as hot as your pride.”

“It is hot enough to roast a demon or two, if you decide I'm worthy. Sleep on it.”

Odin made a noise that might have been a rueful laugh. “You think dragons have nightmares. The dreams of gods would turn your blood to ice.”

Chapter Six

“Valkyries don't bleed!” Tyra protested.

Sigrid gave her a look that would have meant death to mortal man. “Sister, you are brave as a hawk and as beautiful as a lake at sunrise, but you stink like an ancient goat when it comes to lies. You bleed.”

Tyra shuddered. Valkyries were supposed to be indestructible, but Sigrid was right. “You must not tell Father.”

Sigrid smoothed Tyra's hair, a rare gesture from her. “He already knows.”

Tyra groaned. “No doubt he is disappointed with me.”

“It is the least of his worries.”

With the war and his failing magic, no doubt that was true, but Tyra wouldn't underestimate her father's pride. She would have to be cautious of his temper.

She watched her eldest sister move efficiently about the small, plain chamber, refilling the washbasin from a pitcher of water. Tyra had moved from the Healer's Hall to her own room, which reflected her warrior status. There were no fripperies, no bright colors, none of the feminine clutter one normally found in a woman's bower. Except that the human clothes she had worn lay crumpled on the floor like an accusation.

Sigrid pushed them with her foot. “What are these?”

“I went below.”

“I know that.” Sigrid gave her that look again. “That has never interested you before. Why did you go?”

“I was curious.”

“And you found yourself a dragon. The one that saved you. Quite the heroic part he played.”

“He is a great warrior.”

“I'll grant that he is a great
something
, especially without clothes. You know better than that.”

“You truly sound like an elder sister.” Tyra looked away. Too much had happened: Bron, the demon, getting hurt. “Something is wrong with me.”

Sigrid set the pitcher down and drew near, expertly checking the bandage around Tyra's ribs. “And what is that?”

The truth came out before Tyra could hold back. “It happens when I hold the newly dead.”

Sigrid frowned. “I understand. For that instant, you feel what they feel. That is common enough.”

“But sometimes it is
my
heart that comes to life. Suddenly it is as if I am a human, seeing all with the fires of their feelings.”

Sigrid's eyes darted away. It was the first time Tyra had ever seen guilt on her sister's face.
It happens to her, too
. That gave Tyra courage to say more. “Sometimes the feeling lingers. Sometimes it takes a long time to fade.” Like ever since she'd met Bron.

“No,” said Sigrid softly. “You can't live that way. You can't reap soul after soul and ache for every one you must gather. That is why the Allfather changed us. We would suffer too much.”

But wasn't that suffering worth it? In the coffee shop, Bron had held Tyra's hands in his and gazed at her as if she were a rare jewel. She'd never felt like that before, and she wanted more. And she didn't believe Odin had altered the Valkyries just to save them pain. As Sigrid herself had said, he relished their obedience. He wanted to be first in their hearts and minds.

“There are cures. Disciplines. You would not be not the first to ask the Norns for aid.” Sigrid tucked the blanket around Tyra and stepped back, her hands tight to her sides. “Sleep now. Your wound should be entirely healed by morning. It has already closed.”

Tyra lay back, putting a hand to her eyes. They stung with fatigue. “Is Bron still here?”

“He is with the Allfather. No doubt Odin is sending him on his way.” Sigrid's tone was dry.

“Oh.” Her voice cracked with disappointment.

She heard Sigrid's sigh. “Valkyries don't bleed and they don't weep, either.”

Her sister left. Tyra stayed where she was, loneliness filling her as she shrank deeper under the blanket. It would be hard to ask the old crones for an elixir to cleanse her heart of feeling, but there would be relief. She longed to be one with her sisters again, uncaring, part of a pack and, most of all, not questioning every move she made. One swallow would bring peace.

And a kind of death. Slowly, Tyra sat up. Her side ached, but it was proof she'd had an adventure. It gave her an odd thrill she wasn't willing to give up.
That is life. Whatever I had before was just existence
.

Tyra found her cloak, wrapping it tight because she wore no nightclothes. Rest and bandages were enough to heal her flesh, but her roiling spirits needed more. She needed to thank Bron for saving her life. To hold him. To beg him to be patient while she sorted out all these new emotions.

Most of all, she had to get to Bron before her father sent him away forever.

She slipped through her door and padded softly into the starlit night, keeping to the shadows. She knew instinctively she would find him in the open air. Dragons weren't for the indoors.

* * *

Bron was not hard to find. He stood alone in the meadow, looking up at the stars. His shaggy dark head was tilted back, the starlight washing his clean-cut features to pale marble. Tyra paused a moment, just looking at him. She had seen him transform to a huge scarlet dragon, the color as bright as the fire within. The slow ache inside her said that fire was in him now, banked to ash but ready to burn with the slightest encouragement. Fire was dangerous, but that didn't mean Tyra was willing to shy from it anymore.

He must have heard the swish of her feet in the grass, because he turned. For a dizzying instant, she could see the dragon in his movements, sinuous and powerful. It stopped her breath, and she suddenly wanted to feel his body against hers so badly her wound felt no more than a pinprick.

Tyra wanted to be his woman. She craved it.

“Hello,” she said softly. Something in the darkness demanded hushed voices, as if the velvet night was sacred.

He closed the distance between them, taking both her hands in his. His heat instantly warmed her. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“Looking for you.” She couldn't help but smile at how feeble that sounded. Then she realized how odd the smile felt, and wondered if she'd ever done it before. “Thank you. I've never been rescued by a dragon before.”

He laughed softly. “I've never seen a fair maid skewer a demon with a chair leg before.”

Tyra shrugged one shoulder, letting the cloak slip just enough to show that shoulder was bare. “I had to improvise.”

The cool wind brushed her skin and fingered the loose tendrils of her hair. Bron stared at her bare flesh, seemingly mesmerized. For a moment, Tyra wondered if she'd miscalculated—that she'd made a foolish, untutored mistake. She had no experience—just emptiness and a certainty that Bron could fill it.

He raised his hand, letting it hover an instant before his fingers brushed that sliver of skin. When she didn't flinch away, he grew bold, brushing hair from her neck so he could press his lips there. She gasped at the warmth of his mouth. All at once she was melting inside, helpless, formless, and utterly vulnerable.

Then the cloak was on the grass, and she stood naked beneath the stars. She was aware of her body in a way she'd never been before. Her limbs were muscular, honed from practice with a sword. She didn't have the lush curves she'd seen on some women and truly hoped he didn't mind. From the speed with which Bron shed his garments, she decided he did not.

Wordlessly, he took her into his arms, his mouth finding hers. She pressed against him, drawing a low sound from deep in his chest. It vibrated against her, bringing a thrill of sensation to the tips of her breasts. Males, it seemed, were designed for a woman's pleasure. She stroked the silky strength of his shaft and felt him rumble again. The musk of dragon rose around them, reminding her of leather and man.

And then his hands found her, and her thoughts vanished like mist shredded by a breeze. Individual actions blurred into a collage: Bron's hands on her breasts, her fingers digging into the thick muscle of his shoulders. His mouth grazed her collarbone, working kisses downward. She wriggled against him, wanting more and more of his skin against hers. After so much time keeping the world at sword's length, she lost all sense of her individual self. And then they were on the grass, her cloak beneath them, the starlit sky above.

They stopped a moment, panting. Bron's fingers brushed the bandage. “I don't want to hurt you.”

“I am a warrior. I will not break.” Her voice was braver than she felt. A jittery sensation hid beneath the pounding of her heart. This was a forbidden precipice, and she was about to hurl herself off it with gusto. She burned with impatience for that moment of giddy freedom.

As if he sensed her mood, Bron put a hand to her cheek, his caress gentle for all his strength. The gesture calmed her, as if promising he would see her safely to the other side. She turned her face into his touch, pressing her lips to his palm. When her gaze met his again, his expression was soft with wonder.

He said nothing more, but kissed her again, this time drawing it out like a man starved for connection. If she had melted before, now she was molten, a fresh and urgent desire taking her over. Slowly, he worked his mouth down her flesh, suckling her breasts until she cried out and pushed her belly tight against his. He explored the planes of her stomach, the sensitive flesh inside her thighs, and the cleft between them. She had never before imagined such heavy, pulsing need could be coaxed to life with a touch.

As Bron worked, he grew warmer, as if the fire within him was bringing them both to a slow boil. The heat drew her like life itself. She clung, wrapping herself around him, wanting his warmth inside her. She pushed her fingers into his hair, using it as an anchor to find his mouth and explore the impossible softness of his lips. And then she used her senses to discover the rest of him, the sculpted architecture of his chest and muscular belly. His was the body of someone who worked hard. There was nothing extraneous, nothing wasted about him. Like a perfect blade, he was in balance, form and function as one.

His neck muscles corded as he braced himself over her. He pushed her thighs apart with his knee, positioning himself. Tyra moaned as he filled her, exploring places she'd barely known existed. It was delicious, strange, and oh, so intoxicating. Her body welcomed him, rising to meet his movements as if she might draw yet more of him inside. Bron began a steady, thrusting motion.

Bron pushed her to the brink of pleasure and then let her slip away, teasing her until she was ready to scream with need. The tension inside her rose and fell in a tangled, spiraling insanity of desire until she imagined they'd both combust. With a gasp, she lost her last foothold on the solid world, crumbling as absolutely as those demons had exploded into dust. Tyra felt tears streaking her face.

Valkyries didn't cry. Or maybe they only cried for joy.

And then Bron gave way himself, filling her with yet more heat. He flung his head back, showing the strong, thick column of his throat. Tyra gripped his shoulders, losing herself in the fierce triumph of the moment.

“Bron,” she said, liking the way his name fit on her tongue. She'd jumped off that forbidden precipice, but he hadn't let her fall. Not for one moment. A new emotion hit her, both exultant and faintly lost. Sigrid had been wrong. No drug or discipline could wash this away. There was no going back. She was changed.

And then he looked her in the eyes. The amber of his gaze seemed lit from within, dragon fire blazing so close she felt its heat. “Tyra.” The way he said it was like a brand, binding them and redefining something essential about her.

She was still a Valkyrie, no question—but that didn't mean the same thing as it had until that moment. Now she was more.

Chapter Seven

Bron swooped over the city, his excellent night vision penetrating deep into the shadowed places. The skyline was a brilliant scattering of jewels, battling the night with its sparkling towers and flowing rivers—but Bron was looking for a different kind of war with a more sinister darkness. The Allfather had grudgingly conceded that a willing dragon might be useful to fly surveillance missions, so Bron had taken on that task, both for Tyra and because it was the right thing to do. Though Odin did not like to concede Bron's superiority in any way, dragon eyes were better than magic when it came to the early detection of a demon raid.

And over the past week, he'd seen a pattern emerge. Dark patches splotched the city like mange. Bron tipped his wings, circling lower to get a closer look at a street that had been lit the last time he'd passed by. Tonight it lay dark and silent, devoid of life. He cursed.