Stone 02 Kato

by DB Reynolds

  Abruptly remembering that she wasn’t wearing proper clothes, and that she still needed to go to work, she hurried back to her bedroom. As she got dressed, she couldn’t stop staring at the floor, wondering if Alton Hudson was still lying dead down there. She’d heard Claire’s screams loud and clear this morning, so he’d probably—

  Enough.

  Time to go to work. She needed something else to think about for a while.

  Chapter Two

  Malibu, California

  GRACE PULLED THE soft cashmere of her sweater a little tighter over her shoulders, trying to ward off the seemingly permanent chill of her basement workspace. What she needed was a warm parka and some leggings, but that didn’t suit her boss’s idea of appropriate female attire. Actually, very few of her clothes did. She’d had to buy a new work wardrobe for this job, but it was worth it. Not only because the experience looked good on her résumé, but because the work was fascinating. Even if her closet did now harbor way too many pastel twin sets.

  The more senior archivists had real cubicles at the other end of the long, narrow room where she worked, its low ceiling accentuating its cave-like appearance. But she had only a desk and some filing cabinets in a corner, from which she could see the distant gleam of the green “exit” sign above the lone door.

  She was working alone again. Nothing unusual about that, except that tonight she was even more reluctant than usual to leave. She still hadn’t decided whether she should go back to her condo, or go to her parents’ place in Malibu instead. The house was closer, but the condo was still home. And either way, she’d be alone.

  Everyone else she worked with was long gone, home to family or friends, or just a pet who was waiting to be fed. Grace didn’t have any of those. Well, she had family, people who loved her. But they were too far away to be waiting for her at the end of the day. Her brother was back in Boston, finishing his own post-doc. And, hell, she wasn’t even sure where her parents were right now. Her dad’s clients were all over the world, and, as usual, her mom was traveling with him. Thirty-two years of marriage, and they were still in love. It was the kind of love she hoped to find for herself someday, although she wasn’t holding her breath.

  Which brought her back to her friends. She had those, too, but they’d all but given up on inviting her out, especially on work nights, like this one. They’d all be at some crowded club or other, looking for Mr. Right, but Grace had no interest in either the club scene or Mr. Right just yet. Someday, she would, but right now her career came first, even though her friends kept telling her that love wasn’t going to be found in the basement of an antiquities museum, even one with a world-class reputation.

  She put down her magnifying glass and pulled a shawl from the back of her chair—shawls were definitely on the approved wardrobe list—adding another layer of warmth over her shoulders, then stood and made her way halfway down the room to the coffee machine. This late at night, she tried to stick with decaf tea, so she dropped her tea bag into the hot water to let it steep and then wandered down to the far end of the long room, while she waited. Her boss had his office there, right near the only exit door, but that’s not why she visited the distant corner tonight and every other night that she worked alone.

  She was there for the warrior who stood watch. He was ancient, the statue beautifully sculpted of some soft medium. She wasn’t an artist and couldn’t have said what the material was, but it was softer than marble. She’d have described it as grainy, probably inaccurately. But as if to support her description, her foot scuffed something rough on the floor, and she glanced down in the dim light, almost afraid of what she’d find. Was her warrior crumbling? The museum wouldn’t let that happen. But if he was damaged and got shipped off to restoration, then she’d lose him, her only companion while she worked. She scanned every inch of his magnificent figure, every perfectly delineated muscle, the finely chiseled features of his fierce countenance, the high cheekbones, and the eyes that, to her, had always seemed a little sad.

  “You look good to me, big guy,” she said, stroking his powerful forearm. “And this scroll still has me stumped. How about you stop hanging around looking handsome and help me read that thing?”

  She sighed. Yep, that’s what she’d come to. Swooning over crumbling statues of ancient warriors. She frowned. The crumbling part did bother her, though. She’d been working in this basement on and off for a few years now. She’d done several turns as an unpaid intern, when she was still in grad school, and then this year, when she’d been awarded one of the museum’s much sought after post-doc positions. But in all that time, she couldn’t remember a single instance of dirt on the floor around her warrior. Maybe she’d report it to someone in the morning.

  “Back to work,” she said, glancing up one more time and meeting his sad eyes. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here a while yet.”

  She dumped her used tea bag in the trash and walked back to her desk, holding the hot cup in both hands, soaking in the warmth. Once there, she set it carefully aside, settled back into her chair, and bent to her task. This particular group of scrolls had come in as part of a large bequest from one of the museum’s regular supporters. The man was in his nineties and worried that his heirs would sell off his collection to the highest bidder despite his oft-stated desire to have it placed in a museum for others to enjoy and learn from. So, he’d preempted his death and donated the entire collection himself. Unfortunately, he had more enthusiasm than record-keeping skill, and, at his age, no memory of when or where he’d acquired most of the written documents in his collection. The museum employed or consulted with some of the best minds in the world, but, oddly enough, no one had recognized the language or alphabet of this particular set of scrolls. So, Grace had been given the task of figuring out who wrote it and what it said.

  But, so far, she was stumped. In fact, she was beginning to think it wasn’t a language at all. Or rather, not a language of letters and words, but, rather, symbols that might very well be mathematical in nature. After all, mathematics was the true universal language. But it wasn’t a language that she spoke with any fluency, which was why she’d written out a copy of the largest scroll and sent it off to a mathematician friend of hers. His name was Ryan, and he was one of the reasons she didn’t go out with her friends as much lately. They had a history together that she’d rather forget. Being around him reminded her of places she’d been, things she’d done . . . and the people she’d done it to.

  So she worked instead.

  The fact remained, however, that Ryan was quite brilliant when it came to mathematics, so she was willing to ask for his advice on the scrolls. Even if it meant stirring up old nightmares, like the one she’d had this morning.

  It was time-consuming to write out copies of the scrolls to use in her translation efforts, but she needed something she could mark up and make notes on. Eventually, the museum would photograph the collection for their records, but that could take weeks, or even months. In the meantime, exposing the ancient paper and ink to the heat of a photocopier was quite rightly frowned upon, especially in a case like this, where they still hadn’t identified the era of the paper or the source of the ink. Definitely not worth the risk.

  Copying symbols that had no meaning to her was uniquely labor-intensive. The smallest deviation could change the translation, assuming they ever figured out what any of it meant. But she loved solving mysteries like this, and she honestly didn’t mind the work. She’d finished copying two of the scrolls already. One she’d sent to Ryan—he’d gotten a photocopy of her handwritten original—and she’d just completed the second one when she’d been working late at home the previous night. There was just one more left to copy, the smallest one that she was working on now. Once that was finished, she’d really start digging into the translations, casting a much wider net in her search for similar writings.

  She flipped to a fresh page on her pad of lined paper and got started.

  KATO STRAINED against the confining stone
, feeling a weakness in his prison wall that had never been there before. The woman—the others called her Grace—had always spoken to him when she worked alone late at night. Except that lately it hadn’t been as always. She’d begun reflecting on his knowledge of the ancient world, and wondering whether he could help her. Help her decipher a scroll that was far more dangerous than she knew.

  It wasn’t danger that brought a rare note of excitement to his soul, however. It was the fact that she’d thought he could help read the damn things. The words of his curse had haunted him all these years. He could still hear Sotiris’s mocking voice as the sand poured over him, choking him, trapping him in this stone prison for millennia. But when Grace had mentioned the possibility that he could help with her translations, he’d felt a brush of cool air pass over his skin. The simple sensation would have driven him to his knees, if such a thing had been possible. Never in all the years he’d spent on the battlefield, facing the most terrifying forces their enemy could conjure, had he been so unmanned as he’d been at that simple touch of cool air on his skin.

  He’d known then that freedom was close, so close. But some vestige of the curse, some twisted thread, would not let go . . . until tonight when she’d spoken to him again, but this time her words had been precise. She’d very clearly asked for his help. And he’d known that this was his moment.

  The curse buzzed angrily, a searing heat against his skin. The damn thing didn’t want to release him, but it was bound by the words Sotiris had spoken so long ago. Words designed to keep him locked away forever. But words change their meaning with the passage of time, and the Fates will always play their games.

  Long-unused muscle and sinew flexed and burned, as his heart pumped fresh blood to storm through arteries and veins, pulsing thick and strong. It was a welcome agony, but an agony nonetheless. His gaze was drawn to a distraction, the woman. She was lovely. Tall and lithe, with flowing blond hair and eyes that were so pale a blue, they appeared silver if the light struck just right. Her skin was as smooth as that of the wealthy women of his time, the ones who’d been happy to climb into his bed, but had spurned him by the light of day. He was the dumb one, all muscle and no brain. At least that’s what everyone had thought of him.

  Or not everyone. There’d been his brothers, fellow warriors who’d fought and laughed by his side. And their leader, Nicodemus. He’d been the one who brought the four of them together, made them a force like the world had never seen. No one had stood before them.

  But their very skill and courage had been their downfall, because men always want what they can’t have, the very things that Nico and his warriors had stood to protect. And those same weak and greedy men have ever been drawn to evil leaders who promise the world but deliver only pain.

  Grace threw her pencil down with a frustrated noise, drawing Kato’s attention once more. He focused abruptly on what she’d been writing, and fear drove his heart to work harder, to flood his muscles with blood, his nerves with energy. He needed to stop her. She could not be permitted to finish that scroll. To activate the curse it contained would be . . .

  His prison split open with a thundering crack that numbed his ears. But he didn’t need his ears. Not for this. His hand clenched on his sword, his fingers stroking the grip like the first touch of a lover, remembering every rough inch of the leather wrap. He staggered as the last bit of stone fell to dust, but his warrior’s body responded instinctively, balancing with ease, his gaze never wavering from the target.

  He strode down the long length of the dark room, blade raised high. Grace was on her feet, pale eyes wide with fear, her mouth open in a silent scream of shock, a scream that found its voice as the tip of his black blade came down and pierced the scroll she’d been copying . . . a fraction of a second too late.

  The demon seemed to materialize right beneath Kato’s blade, eyes flashing gold sparks, skin the bright red of the nether dimension that had birthed it. It opened its mouth and a cackle erupted, chilling Kato’s soul as the creature turned its heated gaze on Grace, whose heedless copying of the deadly spell had called it forth. She hadn’t known what she was doing, but that didn’t matter. The demon knew who had summoned it from its hellish home, and who could just as easily send it back. Unless it killed her first. The creature stretched out a clawed hand, talons catching in her hair as it reached for her white throat. . . .

  Its cackle became a scream of agony as Kato’s blade sang, slicing through the demon’s reaching arm, drinking in the blood that flew from the wound, so that not a single drop fell to the floor. The blade danced in Kato’s grip, its joy at being fed after all this time a shiver of pleasure that hit Kato’s nerves like a shot of adrenaline.

  The demon bellowed in outrage and turned to face its attacker, seeming to see Kato for the first time. Shoving a hand into its own flesh, it produced a gruesome blade, wet with blood and venom that flew through the air as the weapon swung toward Kato.

  Kato laughed and easily sidestepped the grisly attack, reveling in the thrill of battle once more, the black magic of his heritage driving him forward, giving strength to his arms and courage to his heart. This creature didn’t recognize yet whom he faced. He was Kato Amadi, son of the Dark Witch, she who had birthed the first tribe and ruled the desert sands. There was nothing he couldn’t accomplish, no creature he couldn’t defeat. Magic ran through his veins and lent strength to his soul. He’d been born with the power to destroy the beasts of the nether dimensions, just like this one.

  His blade’s eerie song filled the room, echoing off the low ceiling, daring the walls to defy its mastery. Kato gripped the sword with two hands, grinning as the demon advanced. Wind whipped the narrow space, tornados of paper spinning wildly, worthless trinkets and treasured trophies alike crashing to the floor and smashing against walls until the ground beneath his feet was littered like the broken stones of a quarry. But none of that mattered. Kato had his prey, and the demon would die tonight.

  He swung his blade at the stalking creature, feigning an attack on the neck and then slicing low to lay open a line of hot blood over the demon’s chest and belly. Guts and ichor spilled from the wound, but the demon never paused. It wiped its hand through the oozing mess, then raised that same hand to its lips and licked its fingers, before turning to cast a covetous gaze on Grace where she sat huddled on the floor, leaning against a tall metal cabinet. She stared at the beast, her eyes wide with horrified disbelief, her arms wrapped around her legs, pressing them against her chest, as if trying to hold herself together.

  Kato roared his fury. This creature had no right to cast its filthy gaze on Grace. He turned and launched a vicious sidekick, slamming his foot into the demon and sending it flying through the air. It slid across one desk and crashed into another, before jumping to its feet with a fearless glare, that same cackling challenge slithering from its throat. This demon was too arrogant. It needed to learn the price of challenging the son of the Dark Witch.

  Kato advanced on the demon as it rose to its full height once more, shrieking a challenge and raising its hideous blade. Swinging wide in a probing attack, it drew back and then, faster than the eye could follow, it thrust the sword at Kato’s belly, a crowing bellow of victory already roaring from its throat.

  But Kato wasn’t there. Flipping in midair, he leapt over the demon’s head, one hand reaching out to grab the beast’s long hair, every strand of it slicing into his fingers like the sharpest metal. But that didn’t stop him. Gripping the strands ever more tightly, he yanked the demon’s head back and cut its throat, his blade destroying veins and arteries, slicing through skin, tendons, and bone until the monstrous head was clinging to the ichor-covered body by the thinnest of sinuous threads. Still alive, just as Kato intended.

  Kato whispered a few words of dark magic, words learned from the Dark Witch before he was even old enough for his tongue to repeat them. The demon began to smoke, its skin sizzling as some inner spark took flame and began to burn. Shrieking in terror, the creature f
ell to its knees as black blood bubbled from its cleft neck, coating its chest and belly, its groin and legs. The demon struggled uselessly against the hold of Kato’s power, trying over and over to escape its physical form and return to the safety of its hellish home.

  But that way was forever denied. The foul creature had met the son of the Dark Witch, and true death had claimed it at last.

  Kato stood over the wet puddle of steaming ichor that was rapidly burning itself off into nothing. The demon was gone, and the proof of its existence would soon follow. It was not of this dimension. Its body and fluids couldn’t remain here with no life force to sustain them.

  A small noise drew his gaze to Grace, who was staring at him with the same horror with which she’d regarded the demon earlier. He looked down at himself—his chest was wet with blood and ichor, his bare blade slick with the creature’s blood, even as it sucked in the last of it, drinking in the evil thing’s foul energy until there was no trace.

  In a movement so practiced, so ingrained in muscle memory that he didn’t have to think about it, Kato sheathed his now clean blade in the leather scabbard hanging down the middle of his back.

  “Grace,” he said quietly. “I won’t hurt you. I would never hurt you.”

  GRACE STARED. She believed him. She knew she shouldn’t. By everything that was holy, she knew who this was. And it was impossible. But she’d just witnessed . . . what the hell had she witnessed? What was that thing, and where did it come from? For that matter, where had her warrior come from?