Valkyrie's Conquest. Sharon Ashwood

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.