The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  “Well, I’ve never seen any guns around, except mine. But if you’re looking for something . . . older, he has a few things in the wonder room. Come on.” She swung around the landing, taking the lead down the second-floor hallway to push open a set of double doors and reveal Sotiris’s treasured collection. Thankful this wasn’t one of the random tight security cycles with its lasers, she gestured broadly. “Anything here?”

  Dragan stared at the odd collection, his gaze traveling from one item to the next, while she waited impatiently. She understood why he might want another weapon, but their time was limited. And while this wasn’t the biggest room in the house, it wasn’t small either. There had to be over a hundred different objects, most of which she didn’t recognize.

  Dragan didn’t seem to share her ignorance, however. He’d loosed his fingers from hers to walk around the room, murmuring words in a reverent whisper, some of which she even recognized. Everything was behind glass, either alone or in groups, but that didn’t stop him. When he paused at a free-standing display cabinet containing a collection of what she would have considered belt knives, he simply smashed the glass with his elbow, reached in, and withdrew three of the blades. One was smaller than the others, and when she walked over to join him, he handed it to her.

  “This is yours. Don’t lose it.”

  “A knife? But I’ve never—”

  “It takes no skill to cut a binding, nor to drive a blade into a man’s gut. There are leather scabbards over there.” He pointed at a smaller glassed-in cabinet. “Find one that fits the blade. I can always cut the belt down to fit you,” he added, eyeing her petite figure.

  Maeve took the knife simply because he was holding it out to her, and it was the polite thing to do. She stared at it a moment, then turned and walked over to the scabbards. What the hell? In for a dime, in for a dollar, right? She felt a bubble of hysterical laughter sliding up her throat, but swallowed it back as she turned her face away, then used the hilt of the knife to break the glass.

  She was still absorbed in her task, carefully picking up one scabbard after another and testing her new knife in it, when Dragan’s hissed curse had her spinning around, knife in hand and expecting Sotiris to be standing in the doorway. When he wasn’t, she switched her attention to Dragan who was staring at a mid-sized blade, neither long nor short, that hung in a case by itself.

  “Do you recognize that?” she asked, walking over to join him.

  “Son of a whore,” he muttered. “How can he have this?”

  “It’s not his?”

  “No. It’s Nico’s.”

  She heard anguish in his voice. “Who’s Nico?”

  “Nicodemus. My sworn liege and a sorcerer greater than Sotiris. But if his blade rests here, then . . .” His voice trailed off, but Maeve didn’t need to hear the ending to know where he was headed.

  “Don’t go jumping to conclusions, dude. You’re here, aren’t you? And you’re certainly alive. Maybe this guy Nico lost his knife, or whatever that’s called, at the same time you all were cursed. Makes sense, doesn’t it? You said Sotiris couldn’t have defeated him, but if all four of you suddenly disappeared, it would have been quite a shock, right? And if Sotiris attacked in that moment . . . well, things happen. The loss of a knife isn’t the same as dying. It can’t be the first one he’s ever lost.” She shrugged inwardly. Maybe the knife was a family heirloom, or something.

  “You’re right, of course,” he agreed absently. “Nevertheless . . .” He smashed his elbow through the glass. Turning with the knife in hand, Dragan must have read the expression on her face, because he chuckled softly. It was a scratchy sound, as if he hadn’t used it in a while.

  “Don’t worry, sweet,” he said softly. “I’ve not lost my mind. If Nico is alive—and the fates permit it to be so—he’ll welcome the return of this.” He walked past her then, heading for the scabbard collection. “By the way,” he growled. “It’s a short sword, not a knife.”

  “Okay,” she agreed absently, but she was already eyeing the rock. She wasn’t acquisitive by nature, and had never stolen anything in her life before today. But . . . she glanced over her shoulder to where Dragan was smashing yet another glass enclosure, pulling down a set of gauntlets so big, they would have fit her thighs.

  Hell, he wasn’t worried about their smash and grab. What difference would it make if one more thing disappeared? The various blades were great, but Sotiris had stolen Dragan’s life. Assuming she believed any of this, which logic be damned, she was beginning to. At least some version of it, anyway.

  Shooting another look over her shoulder at Dragan, who was now engaged in smashing everything in sight, Maeve inched over to a small fourteenth century padded stool, picked it up and smashed it through both layers of glass over the rock. She then reached in and closed the rock into its velvet box, grabbed it and started for the door. No alarms blared, but she knew they were there. Somewhere in a control room, a faceless tech was sounding the only kind of alarm that mattered. Sotiris was already on his way, but the security company might be even closer.

  “Come on,” she said, touching Dragan’s arm as she passed. “We need to get out of here. We might have company soon, and there’s only one way to this house from the main road.

  “I have what I need, and Nico’s blade, too. I’ll follow you,” Dragan said.

  She raced up the stairs to the third floor, running ahead to her small suite. She looked around the bedroom as she began opening drawers and pulling out those things she absolutely needed, or absolutely refused to leave behind. There was no way she could take everything. Not with the small amount of time they had to make their escape. She scowled, hoping Sotiris wouldn’t destroy her belongings in a fit of rage. He wouldn’t destroy the house—too many of his treasures were stored here. So maybe her things were safe. More likely, he simply wouldn’t bother, figuring she had nothing worth destroying.

  She had a sudden thought and spun around. “You said Sotiris will probably know you’ve broken the curse. Does that mean he can find you no matter where you go?”

  “No. He would only know about the curse’s fall, because he crafted it. But once it’s gone, I’m no longer his prisoner. And I’ve never been his creature to call.”

  “Okay, good.” She yanked her big suitcase out from under the bed, and shoved things in, addressing him over the open lid. “You’re going to need clothes, but I don’t have anything to fit you. We’ll get you something on the way.” She was piling in a stack of t-shirts, cringing at visions of future wrinkles, when he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

  “You said you can track him with that.” He indicated her cell phone where it lay on the bed. “Can he find you the same way?”

  Maeve made a scoffing noise. “As if. No one tracks me unless I want them to.” She patted his arm, taking note of the hard muscles there, with a quiet sigh of pleasure. “There’s a big canvas bag in the closet. It’s not mine, so I don’t know what it was used for. But maybe you can put your sword and . . . the other stuff, in there.”

  His expression clouded and she didn’t have to read minds to know he wasn’t happy at being asked to put the weapon aside.

  She spoke quickly. “Just until we get to the interstate. The last thing we need is for some local cop to stop us for speeding and see you sitting there with a big honking sword on your lap.”

  “It would not be on my lap.”

  “Exactly. In the bag, please. Trust me on this. If we want to put some distance between us and this house, a few precautions are wise.”

  Dragan gave her a grudging nod. “I will trust your judgment in this, as you know this world better than I.”

  Maeve started to agree, but he wasn’t finished.

  “But I will learn,” he added firmly.

  “I bet you will,” she muttered, closed her big suitcase, and drag
ged it to the floor, then raced into the bathroom to throw every bottle of everything she owned into her small vanity case. That done, she moved back to the tiny sitting room, where she swept up the few personal photos she had sitting on the desk, caught up her laptop, and turned to find Dragan right behind her.

  “Is it difficult to leave this place?” he asked, showing an unexpected care for her feelings, when probably all he wanted was to get the fuck away from this prison as fast as possible.

  She walked back to the bedroom, and he followed. “Not really,” she admitted. “I liked it, for a while at least. It’s a beautiful house, filled with all manner of fascinating objects. But now, I’m ready to leave.” She looked up with a smile. “You can carry the big suitcase. But I’ll take the sword, if you want.”

  “Not likely,” he scoffed. Picking up the suitcase in one hand, and the bag with the weapons in the other, he strode through the sitting room and into the hallway.

  “Keys,” Maeve muttered, and scooped them off the dresser. As she did, her chest tightened with emotion. Part of it was concern over what she was being forced to leave behind—especially the books. There was also anxiety over whether she was doing the right thing, but even that was overlaid with a sprinkling of excitement. This was a bona fide quest. She’d lived so much of her life through virtual reality, and the dreams that followed, for so long. But this was real. Dragan—the tortured warrior—and her—the bookish heroine who freed him—running for their lives from an evil sorcerer. She wasn’t naïve or foolish enough to buy completely into the fantasy. She wasn’t sure she believed magic existed, or whether Mr. Sotiris was evil, or just an asshole.

  But he certainly didn’t wish anything good for Dragan. And if he caught up to them, who knew what he’d do? Not only to Dragan, but her. She’d stolen his rock. A bubble of completely inappropriate laughter tried to escape. His rock. Right.

  “Okay, Maeve,” she scolded. “If you’re going to do this, then let’s go.” Walking out to the sitting room, she shoved her small purse into her laptop bag, slung it over her shoulder, and held out a hand to Dragan who was holding both her cases. “I can take the small one. You don’t have to—”

  He didn’t roll his eyes, but she could tell he wanted to. “Fine. You carry this.” He handed her the small suitcase, which she promptly dropped to the floor and pulled up the handle, so it would roll. Dragan was already out the door and striding for the stairs, carrying the heavy suitcase in one hand, as if it weighed nothing.

  “Show-off,” she muttered and followed, taking the time to lock her bedroom door, though she didn’t know why. Habit mostly. The same habit that had her setting the house alarm when she led him through the kitchen and out the back door. “This way.” She dragged the wheeled suitcase over the gravel behind the house to the three-car garage, which used to be a stable. She was the only one who parked here. Sotiris left his car on the concrete circle drive in front of the house when he visited, since he never stayed long.

  Entering the garage through the side door, she flicked open the lock on her small SUV, then walked around to open the back hatch. “You can toss everything in here,” she said, collapsing the handle and sliding the small case into the cargo space.

  Following her instructions, he literally threw the huge, heavy suitcase inside.

  “Where were you on my last trip to Europe?” she asked admiringly.

  “In that house, encased in stone.”

  She shot him a suspicious glance. There hadn’t been the tiniest hint of teasing or sarcasm in his reply, but the look he gave her was a touch too innocent. Hmm. The handsome warrior was getting his mojo back.

  “You go on that side,” she ordered, then realized he might not know how to get into a car. Following him to the passenger side, she opened the door and gestured inside. “You can put the sword in the back seat . . . or keep it with you,” she amended, as he pulled the sword out of the duffle, slid it between his seat and the console, then threw the bag on the back seat. “Put it on the floor in back if we get pulled over, okay? But don’t worry. We probably won’t. I’m a good driver.”

  “I don’t know what that means.” He sighed and looked around.

  She walked to the driver’s side, slid behind the wheel, and reached over to pat his shoulder. “You’ll catch up.” She opened the garage door with the press of a button, then showed Dragan how to manage the seat belt, and fastened her own. “There’s going to be some noise now. It’s just the engine,” she warned, then put her hand over his where it lay on his thigh. Everything she took for granted, virtually everything about living in this century, this decade, would be completely foreign to him. She doubted Sotiris had bothered to keep him up to date on anything other than his personal victories, and lies about the fate of Dragan’s friends. And maybe some of those weren’t lies at all, she thought. The first thing she’d do once they reached a safe place—or at least as safe as she could make it—would be to search for information on the warriors he called his brothers and their leader, Nicodemus. Dragan deserved that much, at least. She didn’t know if they were real or just a figment of his imagination. It was very possible they’d all died in the same battle where he’d been cursed, and he’d dreamed up their survival, as a way to keep himself sane over the centuries of his imprisonment.

  But if they were real, and if by some chance they weren’t still trapped in their own prisons, then she’d find them. It was what she was good at.

  “You ready?” she asked.

  His fingers, which had curled around hers on his thigh, loosened, and he nodded. “Where will you go? Sotiris is very powerful. And he’ll have like-minded allies who will look for us.”

  “It’s a big country,” she said, mostly to convince herself. She’d given their route considerable thought while she’d thrown her belongings together. Mr. Sotiris. . . . No. No more “Mister.” She’d only used it because he’d insisted on the formality, but she no longer had to do what he asked, no longer had to grant him the respect he so obviously didn’t deserve. He’d imprisoned Dragan in stone. That much was indisputable. Maybe it hadn’t been the thousand years Dragan had spoken of, but his statue had been in that dark room for at least the three years she’d lived in the house. And now the statue lay in pieces—and she sure as hell hadn’t taken a mallet to it—while Dragan sat next to her. Improbable as it seemed, that much of his story seemed to hold up. And knowing Sotiris, she was far more willing to give her warrior the benefit of the doubt.

  Two things she definitely knew for sure, however. Sotiris was on his way from Manhattan, and he’d be furious when he discovered them gone, and what they’d taken with them. He wouldn’t storm around like a child, however. His anger was a much more focused thing. He’d start looking for them, most likely by calling up one of his personal flunkies to run a search. Their first action would be to try to hack the GPS in her SUV. For all she knew, Sotiris had already tried. It would be like him. He wasn’t a big believer in trust. But it didn’t matter, because she could disable the GPS with a single switch which she’d installed soon after she got the SUV. That had been to keep her parents from tracking her whereabouts in grad school, but she’d never uninstalled it.

  While she reached under the dash to take care of that, she began to work on their escape plan. Sotiris was intelligent and ruthless, but he was also misogynistic. He went to great pains to pretend otherwise, but while he was certain of his superiority over everyone, he was especially so when it came to her, since she was not only female, but much younger. That confidence would lead him to assume he could out-think her, and that would be a mistake. She was sure he knew and could do many things she couldn’t, but she had her talents, too.

  Since he’d be driving up from Manhattan, he’d assume she’d run away from him, which meant north toward Canada. That wasn’t a bad plan, except that she’d never been farther into Canada than across the pedestrian bridge
in Niagara Falls, which wasn’t going to help. So she pulled up a map on the navigation system. She was a visual person and needed to see where they were going.

  Dragan remained quiet, but he watched everything she did with an absolute focus that made her suspect he’d be able to duplicate every move, whether he understood the technology or not.

  “Right,” she said, entering her chosen route. “We’ll go north to I-390—” She tapped on the map, so he could see what she meant. “—follow Lake Erie to Cleveland, then cut back south to Cuyahoga. It’s a big tourist spot—lots of travelers,” she explained. “Tourists mean plenty of motels and coffee shops. I doubt Sotiris has ever been there, but I can’t see him chasing us down in his own car, either. He’ll hire someone to do it, but their initial information will come from him. I’m betting he’ll assume I’ll make a straight run north, to the border. He probably has connections enough to tell him if we take any of the main crossings into Canada. They all have cameras now. Pictures of everyone. But by then, we’ll be well south. At least I hope so.”

  Dragan nodded. “I don’t know your roads, but what I understand of your escape route makes sense.”

  Maeve felt a rush of pleasure at his approval. What a geek, Mae, she chided. Her pleasure had nothing to do with his looks, or not much. It was just who she was, the girl who’d read too many fantasies, participated in too many role-playing games in high school. That person was tha-rilled that a serious warrior like Dragan approved of her strategy. Even if it was just a matter of mapping a route on her nav system.

  “Do you have a final destination in mind? Friends or allies in the south?” he asked.

  She nodded as she backed out of the garage, wanting to get on the road as soon as possible. “I have family in Tennessee, but we won’t be going there. Sotiris can locate my family too easily, and I don’t want them involved in this.” She exhaled an anxious breath and decided. “I think Florida’s our best bet.” She widened the map, so he could see the state. “I heard Sotiris growling on the phone once about hating Florida, because some asshole—his word, not mine—lived there and the whole state reeked of him. I didn’t know what he was talking about then, but now. . . . Could Sotiris sense his enemies’ magic over a distance like that if they were powerful enough?”