The Stone Warriors: Nicodemus

by D. B. Reynolds

  But Nico was no longer trusting to probabilities when it came to her. He checked every aspect of the house’s protection, and strengthened those on the entry points—doors and windows both—before retiring to his workroom to think.

  He’d assumed too much about the magical creatures of this world, been too arrogant about his own power. Yes, he had power beyond anything most magic-users could imagine, but he hadn’t used his full abilities since arriving in Paris. Apart from the overall scarcity of available magic in this world, every so-called sorcerer he’d met thus far had possessed barely enough magic to earn that designation.

  He pulled out one of the few journals he’d brought with him from his own world—the one that detailed how he’d drawn the four warriors to him, and also, the spell he’d eventually used to free Gabriel from the curse of his vampirism. Nico didn’t need the spell itself. But the journal also contained everything he’d learned about vampires while preparing to help Gabriel. What he remembered of the vampires in his own world was limited, since once he’d freed his brother warrior, he’d had no further encounters with them.

  That was the reason he kept journals at all, and why he’d continued the practice, even after leaving his world behind. It would have been impossible to remember every aspect of every spell he’d ever devised or cast. And so now, he poured a glass of wine, found the relevant entries, and began reading.

  By morning, he knew what he’d forgotten, or rather what he’d assumed was different in this world. The vampire masters of his home were far more powerful than he’d remembered. During his research, he’d been so focused on reversing Gabriel’s curse that he’d forgotten everything else he’d learned about them. The strongest among them were as powerful as sorcerers. He’d made a note in his journal at the time, questioning if it was possible the master vampires had been sorcerers before being turned, which would have explained their power. But he’d never followed up on that idea, too consumed with defeating Sotiris. Now, however, he devoured every word he’d written, every idea he’d considered with regard to their power. The possibilities he’d only speculated about back then, now made perfect sense, even though the result was the very embodiment of his personal nightmare.

  Vampires were inherently magical creatures. They had to be. How else could anyone explain their very existence, much less their incredibly long lives and resistance to human disease? Their ability to create others like themselves, and to command those others to do their bidding against their will, was only more proof. Even Gabriel, who was one of the most powerful warriors and possessed one of the strongest wills of any man Nico had ever met, had been forced to commit heinous acts that went against everything he believed as both a man and a warrior. Nico had known that, but had forgotten what it might mean about a vampire’s power and magic.

  He sat back and sipped his wine while considering these new ideas. The female, who was undoubtedly long gone and whose name he might never learn, must have been much more powerful than Gauvain. She’d not only gotten through Nico’s wards, she’d killed Gauvain to get the manacles, presumably after learning what they could do. But would Gauvain have told her anything before she’d freed him? Why give her a motive to kill him? Fuck, he kept forgetting about her power. She hadn’t needed Gauvain to tell her anything. She might have come there with the intent to free Gauvain, but once she’d sensed the strong magic that was the very essence of the manacles, she’d wanted them. So, fuck Gauvain. They were useless without the key, but that had been sitting right there on the table begging to be taken.

  Feeling like a fool, Nico wrote down everything he already knew, along with what he’d just learned, and how the two finally came together in his own mind. He then wrote out a copy on plain paper for his friend Vital, omitting any comments as to his own stupidity. That copy he placed in an envelope with Vital’s name on it. He’d ask David to deliver it along with the rest of the journal copies, after he’d left Paris.

  Nico had learned a hard lesson about faulty assumptions and new worlds. He’d learned it much too late, though he took some comfort in knowing that he, at least, could never be bound by the manacles. They were his creation. And he still had the amber key, which might come in handy someday. But for now, the manacles were gone.

  Just as he would be, by this time tomorrow.

  Chapter Twelve

  NICO SLEPT LATER than planned the next morning, but didn’t regret the extra rest. He’d been up most of the night again, and had a hard day ahead of him. He’d already decided to ride solo, rather than taking a carriage out to the country estate of Charron’s friend. He was eager to get there, worried that something might happen to the “gift” Sotiris had left for him. Not knowing what it was, how fragile or even dangerous it might be, only made his sense of urgency stronger.

  He had a late breakfast with David, during which he made sure the young butler had everything he’d need for the future. His original journals and notes had been waiting for him, along with the copies, all of which had been picked up by David personally the previous evening. He checked to be certain everything was there, then made sure David understood the importance of their secure delivery to Vital.

  “Getting them there safely is more important than the speed of their delivery, you understand? You must handle this yourself, and take a carriage to Charron’s. But only turn these papers over to Vital. If he’s not available, then wait in the carriage until he returns, or try again the next day.”

  “But, sir, the cost of the carriage—”

  “Is nothing compared to the importance of these notes.”

  David’s expression tightened with determination. “I will take care of it, sir. Just as you ask.”

  “I know you will. I’ll miss you, David. I may never have a friend I can trust as I do you.” What he meant was “in this world,” but he omitted that to avoid uncomfortable explanations.

  The young man blushed, but looked worried. “But you’re coming back, Nicholas, aren’t you?”

  “It is my intention to return, but it makes sense to plan for delays or other mischance. If I find evidence of my cousin at this home of Charron’s friend, and if they have some idea of where he was going, I intend to follow his trail. There are others, people I love, whose lives could be changed forever, and not for the better, if I don’t find him.”

  David sighed. “I understand, sir. I will pray for you.”

  Nico hid his surprise. David had never before given evidence of any particular devotion to the church. He wondered if Josette did, but he’d probably never find out. He’d told David that he planned to return to Paris, and maybe he would. But it was more likely that whatever Sotiris had left for him would send him in a very different direction.

  WHEN HE FINALLY left the house, Nico carried only his weapons and the backpack he’d arrived with. The pack held the few clothes he was taking, the journals and notes that had caused his delayed departure, and the amber key, which was all he had left of the manacles. Josette had provided him with a picnic lunch, which reminded him painfully of the times he and Antonia had shared one, in happier times. He didn’t see himself stopping by the roadside, but the food was neat enough that he could eat in the saddle, and he was grateful for her thoughtfulness.

  He was leaving behind so many good people. How many worlds and times would he have to do the same, before he was reunited with Antonia and his warriors? How long before they could all reclaim the lives that had been so viciously interrupted by Sotiris?

  He said good-bye to David, knowing he’d miss him and already regretting that he wouldn’t have any part of a life that he hoped he’d shaped in some way, hoped as fervently that he’d made that life better.

  He pulled the boy in for a hard embrace and stepped into the waiting carriage, which would take him to a reputable stable where he’d purchase a young, strong horse with plenty of spirit for the long ride ahead.

 
Chapter Thirteen

  1824, Reims, France

  NICO HAD BEEN right that riding his own horse would be faster than travelling in a carriage, but he’d forgotten, after so long in Paris, how exhausting hours upon hours in the saddle could be. Or maybe he’d just grown soft sitting in carriages for even short trips through the city, only to sit even longer in the library, or at Charron’s, or even in his own home in the city.

  At his real home—the place he’d been born and grown to manhood—he’d been constantly outdoors, riding to the villages in his territory, or walking marketplaces or fields. And when he wasn’t doing that, he’d been sparring with his warriors or helping train the farmers and tradesmen who would become fighters in his next war with Sotiris. He’d been busy from morning to night, and it was only then, for the most part, that he’d worked with his magic to create new and better spells, or weapons for that same war.

  The gelding he’d purchased for the ride was strong and spirited, but well-trained, and with a smooth gait that saved his ass from becoming even more sore than it was after two days in the saddle. He’d arrived too late in the day to intrude on the sorcerer whose estate had briefly housed Sotiris. He had a letter from Charron introducing him as Sotiris’s cousin, and testifying to his honesty and trustworthiness. The letter also identified him as a sorcerer of some note, but at Nico’s request, Charron had been all too happy to omit any superlatives to describe his power.

  Despite the letter, he was too polite and mostly too tired to deal with that introduction and what would follow that night. Instead, he stayed at an inn that was good enough to have a clean stable and a stable master who slept in the barn round the clock, where he could be roused by the stable boy on duty through the night. Nico had grown rather fond of the gelding he’d begun to call “Denis,” who, according to the priest at the cathedral in Paris, was the patron saint of France. Nico was yet to be clear on what patron saints were or did, but he liked the name, and it fit the gelding’s golden-brown color, which reminded him of all the old gold decorating the cathedral.

  The inn was clean, and the owner’s boy delivered a large bucket of steaming hot water for a small addition to the night’s room cost. It wasn’t too late for dinner, and he desperately wanted some equivalent of cognac to take away the strain of the long ride, so he washed quickly and went down to the brasserie where he ordered stew—which smelled so wonderful that he didn’t care what was in it. Discovering he was in the wrong region of France for cognac, he happily consumed something called a pilsner, which was a darker, heavier version of the ale consumed in his own territory. Although he supposed it wasn’t his territory any longer, and wondered briefly what had come of it.

  But he wasn’t going to dwell on a past he couldn’t change—not yet anyway. If he could travel between worlds and times, it wasn’t entirely impossible that he might someday figure out how to go backwards to where he’d started. Still, it was best for now that he concentrate on the present—enjoying a stew that was as delicious as it smelled, a pilsner that was the perfect accompaniment, along with a coarse bread filled with seeds, just the way he liked it. But then, he hadn’t had a bad meal since arriving in France. Vital had explained that both food and wine were points of honor in the country.

  The men enjoying dinner in the brasserie along with him were cheerful for the most part. Sitting in groups of three or more, they looked like people who spent their days in the sun, and their nights eating good food. Faces were tanned and lined, giving an appearance of age that was probably exaggerated, and bodies were sturdy and strong. They talked, sometimes loudly, and seemed to know each other well, exchanging words with other tables in shouts across the room.

  It was the sort of place Nico would have enjoyed in this world or any other, but by the time he’d scraped the last tasty spoonful of stew, and drained a final tall glass of pilsner, he was fighting to keep his eyes open. So he retired to his room, with its moderately comfortable, but clean bed, and was asleep before he realized there was no pillow.

  HE WASTED NO time the next morning, packing the few things he removed from the backpack and heading downstairs for a cup of dark French coffee, and whatever else he could find in the brasserie.

  “Bread and ham, sir?” the same young woman asked after he’d leaned his pack against the wall.

  “Please, and coffee with sugar.”

  “Of course,” she said with a twinkle in her eye, then did a hip-swinging walk over to the bar to place his order.

  Those hips had him remembering the night before, and the same twinkle he’d seen in her eye. Good gods, he’d been propositioned and had been too tired to know it, much less do anything about it. Not that he would have. His heart was still firmly wrapped up with love for Antonia, which was as it would remain until he found her. He took out Charron’s letter and began reading, to give him a reason for not meeting her gaze when she slid the coffee onto his table, followed by more of the same bread, and several slices of ham.

  He ate quickly, eager to be on his way now that he was so close. Would Sotiris still be there? Had the letter been nothing but a ploy to get him here, so his enemy could kill him? Or try anyway. The only sure way Sotiris had of killing him was a surprise attack from behind. And even then, he’d have to be distracted enough not to notice the bastard was there. This morning, he’d be looking for any sign of Sotiris, so the surprise factor would be all but eliminated.

  He stopped at the front desk to ask directions to the estate of Charron’s friend, thanked the manager, picked up his horse, who was already saddled and well-rested, and was on his way.

  THE ESTATE WAS A vineyard, as everything seemed to be in this region of France, with long rows of staked vines filling the fields to either side of the dirt road leading to what he hoped was the main residence. There were plenty of other buildings, but only this one had a broad, covered porch, as well as a horse and carriage parked to one side. The carriage was open, but empty, and the horse was eating from a feed bag tied to a rail.

  Nico dismounted and tied his gelding to the same rail where the carriage was parked, although he left as much distance as possible between the horses, having no way of knowing how friendly or nervous the other animal might be.

  Slinging his pack over one shoulder, he started for the porch, still hoping he was right about the building, when the door opened and a man stepped out. “Monsieur Katsaros?” he called.

  Nico stopped at the bottom of the stairs and smiling, said, “I am Nicholas Katsaros, and I just realized that Charron never told me your name. It was unforgiveable of me not to have asked.”

  The man laughed. “Charron is too secretive for his own good. He gives out information like a miser with his centimes. I am Séverin, Léandre Séverin. Please, come in. We’ll have wine, and you can tell me about your journey. And I will tell you what I know of Monsieur Sotiris.”

  Nico stepped onto the porch. “He’s not here, then?”

  “Oh no, though I regret to say that you missed him by only a few days. He had important business, or so he said.”

  “Did he say where he was going?”

  “No, only that he would not be returning to France.”

  Nico swore silently. The bastard had known that he was in France, and left, clearly intent on leading him on a merry chase.

  “But come,” Séverin said, “we can sit inside.”

  They settled in a spacious room with comfortable-looking furniture and a huge fireplace. Séverin gestured for Nico to sit, while he disappeared into another room and returned with a chilled bottle of light pink wine, and a tray of several cheeses, and some bread.

  Nico sipped the wine experimentally and found it light and refreshing, even though it wasn’t yet noon. He declined the bread and cheese, explaining he’d just come from breakfast.

  “So,” Séverin said. “You want to know about your cousin’s visit to our lov
ely part of France.” He studied Nico curiously, then said, “I must tell you, Nicholas . . . may I call you Nicholas?”

  “Of course.”

  He tipped his head politely. “And I am Léandre. As I was saying, however, and forgive me, Nicholas, but you look nothing alike.”

  “Our family is large, but we live very near each other, and have for several generations. Sotiris and I share a great-grandmother, but we aren’t close.”

  Léandre chuckled. “You don’t like him.”

  “No.” He didn’t see any problem with admitting that. He doubted Sotiris had gone out of his way to be friendly.

  “And yet you search for him.”

  “That great-grandmother we share? She asked the favor of me.”

  “Ah. Grandmothers hold such power over us, don’t they? It’s the heart that knows and treasures them.”

  Nico nodded his agreement, but couldn’t help thinking of his own gran, who’d been so afraid of him once his magic emerged that she’d avoided him until the day she died. She had even requested that he not attend her deathbed—the only person she’d made the request of. Enemies were forgiven, but not her sorcerous grandson.

  While he remained lost in the unpleasant past, Léandre continued, “Your cousin knew little of France, but spoke the language almost fluently. Just as you do, monsieur.”

  “I’ve been in Paris for some time.”

  “That explains it then. But back to Sotiris, who offered no other name and remained quite aloof the entire time he was here. He used magic, and quite a lot of it, though it was never discussed. I didn’t ask, as it was obvious he was much more powerful than I, and had no wish to become friends. He ate in his rooms, or in the town, which was the only time he left, and then, only rarely. Whenever he had a window open, which was not often, he was sitting at his desk . . . working, I assumed.”