The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  “I liked the hamburgers.”

  She studied him, trying to figure out if he was jerking her chain. Hard to tell. She suspected he’d have a great poker face. “You ever play cards? You know, gambling? Or wagering?”

  He grinned, his face lighting up for the first time since they’d . . . met. “Wagering?” he repeated. “Oh, aye. My brothers and I wagered on everything from women to battle outcomes.”

  Well, that didn’t tell her anything. One didn’t need a poker face when wagering on women. What the hell did they wager about anyway? She scowled, not sure she wanted to know. “All right. I’m going in, but I’ll be right back. Stay here.”

  He gave her a solemn nod. But this time she knew he was pulling her leg. Though she’d never found it quite as charming coming from anyone else.

  Time to go.

  DRAGAN WATCHED Maeve as she hurried past the front of the SUV—an abbreviation he now knew stood for Sport Utility Vehicle, although he didn’t see the sport in it. He had so much to learn about this new world, he thought, as he followed her slim figure into the building. She was a lovely wisp of a woman, not at all like the women from the village where he’d lived in his father’s kingdom. They’d been sturdy and round. The camp followers of Nico’s army had been round, too, though softer than the village women.

  But for all her slenderness, Mae had enough energy for ten of those women. Her mind was a wonder of imagination and intellect, her eyes sparkling and hands flying when she used to recount the battles she’d fought. It had taken him more than a few recitations on her part to realize those battles hadn’t been real, that they’d been part of an elaborate game she played against others like herself. A game where she hadn’t even met her opponents in person, but had fought the entire battle on the computer.

  She’d explained computers to him once, had brought hers in to show him for some reason, assuming he could see what she pointed at. He had been able to as long as she held it properly, though he’d never understood why she’d ever thought so, since outwardly he was a stone statue, with no part of him able to move. Even so, he’d enjoyed her descriptions, and more than once, he’d longed to be capable of offering his advice, telling her what she was doing wrong, and how to win this game she played so intently. It had reached the point where he could barely remember his life before she’d come to the house. Which was odd, since he’d resented her in the first days after she’d arrived.

  Over the decades since Sotiris had located him, the sorcerer had dreamed up all manner of torments. From delicious-smelling food he couldn’t eat, to pictures of naked women he couldn’t fuck, and finally television. That had proved the bastard’s favorite form of torture, though Dragan hadn’t viewed it that way. Sotiris had liked to activate the device and walk away, leaving it on for days at a time. Perhaps it would have been torture for a man who knew what the real world was like, but Dragan wasn’t that man. He’d known that time had passed since his curse, had known his world was long gone, and possessed very little idea of what had replaced it. The television programs had been in turns informative, amusing, or repetitive. But much of the English language he knew had come from all of them, even the boring ones.

  That had ended when Maeve had arrived, and he’d hated her for it. Until he met her. She’d spoken to him as if he were a living man, though she couldn’t have known the truth. And after Sotiris’s visits, she’d always tried to soothe his supposed wounded feelings. It had made no logical sense, and yet, it had worked. Her words, her touch, had taken away not only the filth of Sotiris’s hatred, but had made him feel as if he was a man again.

  She reappeared at that moment, carrying a white bag and running back to the vehicle with the same enthusiasm she’d left it, moments before. He’d noticed that about her. She did nothing by halves. Every day was a fresh challenge, every task faced with all her considerable energy and intellect. He knew she must get tired, maybe sad, but he’d never seen it.

  The door opened on her side, letting in a breath of cold night air. “I got us one room together. I thought it would be better, but I can change it, if you want privacy. They have lots.”

  “I wouldn’t know what to do without you,” he said, meeting her gaze. Such warm brown eyes, and so contradictory. Yes, there was intellect, but there was also a rare innocence. As if she’d learned about the world, but never experienced it. There was no hardness to Maeve, no artifice. “One room is best. I can sleep on the floor.”

  She gave him a surprised glance. “Hell, no. The room has two beds.”

  He had the fleeting thought that the two beds were a shame, but then, there was that innocence gazing back at him. “Thank you,” he said simply.

  “Stop that.” Her voice was sharper than he’d ever heard it. “Sorry,” she said immediately. “But you don’t have to thank me. It’s obvious you’ve been through hell. I’d be something less than human if I didn’t do whatever I could to get you out of there, and reunite you with your friends.”

  Assuming they’re alive, he thought darkly. It had been so long, and the others would have been through much the same torment as his own. And Nico’s blade. What did it mean that Sotiris had it? Maeve was right that it didn’t signify death, but she didn’t understand the importance of a warrior’s blade. Nico had never lost it in all the battles they’d fought. Dragan was beginning to believe that only the rarest good fortune would make it possible to find Nico and his brothers alive and well in the same world where he’d finally been freed. But he found a smile for Maeve, and because she’d asked, he didn’t voice the gratitude to go with it.

  She drove a short distance down the length of the three-story building, stopping near the very end. Once they were out of the SUV, she’d pulled open the big door in back, and was eyeing the jumble of cases they’d piled in there earlier. “I don’t think we’ll need the sword—”

  “It goes where I go.”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “Right. Well, then, you want to carry the small case or the big one?”

  He laughed, shocking himself into stillness. He hadn’t heard that sound from his own throat in millennia, not since he’d been cursed. Oddly, his last memory of the moments before the curse struck was of his brothers and Nico preparing for battle, laughing in their eagerness, boasting of their skill in the coming fight.

  “Dragan?” Maeve’s voice was soft, full of concern.

  He shook his head. “A memory. One I hadn’t thought of in . . . a very long time.” He reached for the big suitcase. “I’ll carry this. It weighs more than you do.”

  “Hey!” she protested. “I’m stronger than I look.”

  “I never doubted that.” He tightened his grip on the sword, then waited until she’d removed the small case, which was full of bottles and tubes of he didn’t know what. Dropping the case to the ground, she pulled down the heavy door and pushed a button on the small black controller she carried. A tinny beep sounded. She’d explained earlier that it locked the vehicle, so it couldn’t be stolen. “Not easily anyway,” she’d added in a grumble.

  “I thought we’d take the stairs,” she said now, as they’d entered the building through a glass door. “We’re on the third floor.”

  He nodded, not knowing how else they could have gotten there.

  “I don’t trust elevators,” she commented as they started upward.

  He tilted his head curiously. “Elevators?”

  “Oh, right. They’re, um . . . I’ll have to show you, but basically, it’s a big mechanical box that moves up and down on giant cables. People can step inside and ride it up or down, if they don’t want to use the stairs.”

  “Are the stairs not safe?”

  “Probably safer. But they do it, because . . . it’s easier, I guess. Not everyone has your strength.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.”

  “Ohhh, that was snide.” She pa
used when they reached the third floor, looking at a small envelope in her hand and comparing it to a sign on the wall. “We’re in 347.”

  He followed her down the hall, his nose wrinkling at the odd chemical smell. He could hear voices from behind some of the doors they passed, which didn’t speak much for their sturdiness. Or their security. He was glad when Maeve stopped at the very last door on the right. His directional sense told him the room’s windows would open on the space where they’d left the SUV, and a lighted red sign at the end of the hall said, “Exit.” He gestured. “More stairs?”

  She looked up from where she was sliding a thin card into a narrow slot in the door. “Emergency stairs. We can get to them from in here, but not from outside.”

  He nodded. “Good.”

  She gave him an arch look. “I chose this room on purpose, you know.”

  “I didn’t know they had emergency exits in your battle games,” he teased.

  She gasped in outrage, though the laughter in her expression belied the reaction. “We’ll see how well you do in those games.”

  His thoughts darkened. “I fought my first battle before this world even existed.”

  “With Nicodemus?”

  He shook his head. “No. Against my father’s enemies. They were nightmare enough, many of them more brutal than Sotiris. I doubt they exist anymore, in this world or any other.”

  MAEVE SHIVERED AT Dragan’s words. “From your lips . . . “ she whispered, repeating the first part of an idiom she’d heard often from people back home, including her grandparents, who’d done their best to make her a good Christian child. They still prayed in church every Sunday that she’d find her way back from the godless path she’d chosen—something she knew because they told her so, all the time. They were good people, and they loved her fiercely. She couldn’t find her way to believe in blind faith, though she sometimes envied those who did. Life seemed so much simpler that way.

  She keyed open the door and went straight to the window, grateful to see that the building was old enough that the windows still opened. The room was stuffy and warm, probably from being closed up too long. Preferring the cooler air, she slid the window open, then glanced back at Dragan. “Do you mind?”

  He gestured in agreement. “Fresh air is always welcome.”

  She fussed with the drapes nervously, then turned to stare at the two queen-sized beds. When she’d decided, down at the front desk, to go with two beds, the space had seemed more than enough. But now that she was standing next to them . . . maybe she should have gone with the suite. She wouldn’t have minded sleeping on the couch. And with a separate bedroom, they wouldn’t have been sleeping so damn close to each other.

  Not that there was anything sexual between them. First of all, even if he was attracted to her—which he wasn’t—he obviously had far more experience than she did. Which wouldn’t be difficult, since her experience barely qualified as such. She swallowed a groan. Why hadn’t she thought about this?

  “They don’t have room service,” she said, speaking rapidly, knowing it betrayed her nerves, but unable to stop herself. “The coffee shop downstairs delivers, though, so we can call in an order. There’s supposed to be a menu . . . here it is.” She picked up the well-worn menu and began flipping through it as if it held the secrets of the universe. What a fucking dork she was.

  Dragan, to his credit, either didn’t notice her manic state or chose to ignore it. He was probably accustomed to women going crazy around him. He walked past her without a glance, his focus entirely on the window. Shoving away the gauzy sheers she’d wasted so much time on, he stared out the window, hands fisted on narrow hips, head turning from side to side, as if taking in every detail. He seemed very warrior-like in that moment, despite the rather ordinary, next to the highway, tourist vibe of the hotel. It made her wonder what kind of fighter he’d been, back in the day. And where had the wings come in? What did he use them for in battle? She would have asked, but was afraid it might be painful for him to talk about the life he’d lost. The one stolen from him somehow, whether by magic or something else.

  She dropped to the bed closest to the door and flopped to her back, legs hanging off the end. It was time to start thinking and stop running. It had been the right decision this morning, but now they had to get smart, because Sotiris sure as hell was.

  “The first thing he’ll do is try to track my phone.”

  Dragan turned, a huge, dark form backlit by the setting sun. “So you said earlier. Will he succeed?”

  “No. I removed the SIM card from my phone and turned it off. He won’t be able to track it. His guy will look for comms from my laptop next, but he’ll never find that either. I’ve got encryptions on top of encryptions, and I’m a gamer. My connections bounce through so many countries, he’ll need a few vaccinations by the time he gives up.”

  “Good,” he said, giving her a half smile. “That’s my bed, by the way.”

  “Oh!” She jumped up as if she’d been shocked, then stood staring at him, her heart racing. “Sorry.”

  He shrugged. “The door is the only vulnerable access to the room. I should be closest to it.”

  “Right. Of course.” Her voice was an embarrassing squeak, but he didn’t seem to notice. “Do you want to look at the menu?”

  He took it from her, but quickly shook his head and gave it back. “I can read the words, but these descriptions mean nothing to me. You choose.”

  “Any preference?”

  “As long as it’s meat. Preferably bloody.” He shrugged. “In my world, the meat was killed, cooked, and eaten the same day.”

  She nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.” She opened the menu, but then remembered her purchase and handed him a white, plastic bag with the hotel’s logo on it. “They had a gift shop downstairs. There wasn’t much, especially not in your size, but I got you a t-shirt and sweats, just for tonight. And a pair of socks. You’ll need to keep your boots, for now. But we’ll stop somewhere tomorrow and do better.”

  He took the bag and peered inside, then raised his eyes and gave her a surprisingly sweet smile. “Thank you.”

  She smiled back. “It’s not much, but it’s clean. The bathroom’s through there.” She pointed. “You can shower if you want, while I order the food.”

  He walked the few steps to the bathroom and stood there, staring inside. For the first time, she saw something close to despair on his face as he scanned the small space. She frowned. She’d missed something, but what?

  “Shit!” She hurried over to him and patted his thick arm. “Sorry. Let me show you.”

  The tub and shower combination was the easy part, as was the sink. The toilet made her turn ten shades of red, but she persisted, telling herself it was a perfectly normal bodily function and nothing to be embarrassed about. It didn’t work, but it got her through the explanation.

  “Okay,” she said finally, squeezing past him in the tight space. “Any questions, just yell.” Closing the door behind her, she leaned against it and breathed. That hadn’t gone too badly. She heard the shower water turn on, heard the curtain slide with a rattle of metal, and jumped away from the door, turning to stare at it. He was getting in the shower. Her lips curved in a crooked smile. He was naked and getting in the shower. She could crack the door open, see if he needed anything else, like soap? More towels?

  A thump sounded from inside and she hurried back to the main room. “Coward,” she muttered, then laughed at herself and picked up the room phone.

  DRAGAN WATCHED Maeve pile their empty plates on the plastic tray. A young woman had showed up at the door soon after his shower, with the same tray piled high with all manner of food and other things. Maeve had reached to take the tray from the girl, but he’d moved past her to take it instead. No doubt she could have lifted it—she was stronger than she appeared at first glance—but some p
rotective instinct had driven him to step in front of her. She’d treated the girl’s arrival as routine, but all he’d seen was someone they didn’t know who was offering a tray with too many places to hide things.

  Maeve hadn’t reacted, other than to hand the girl some money and close the door. She’d then laid out their meal, placing a dish in front of him that held a large piece of nearly-raw meat and a pile of what he now knew were “French fries.” The name made no sense to him, but the “fries” had turned out to be crispy slices of potato with enough salt to make him long for a huge mug of ale. There’d been no ale, but there had been wine. Maeve had drunk sparingly, but even that had brought a flush to her cheeks. He’d noticed her placing the back of one hand to her face, as if measuring the heat of her skin.

  She set the piled tray on a narrow table near the door, then sat across from him. “I can make coffee, if you want. Or tea?” She started to get up again, but he reached for her hand, stopping her. She froze, staring at their joined hands, his skin dark from a sun that didn’t shine on this world, his hand dwarfing her pale fingers.

  He rubbed his thumb over her soft skin. “There were many things I missed during my long imprisonment,” he said softly, not looking at her. “But the one I missed the most, the one that ate at my soul day by day, century by century, until I thought I’d go mad from the lack . . . was this. The grasp of a friend’s hand, the affirmation of a shared humanity.” He looked up then, and saw tears shining in her eyes. He lifted his other hand slowly and brushed his knuckles over her cheek. “The delicate feel of a woman’s skin,” he murmured. “So soft. Like yours.” He felt the heat of her reaction then, but it wasn’t the wine this time.

  She swallowed, her throat moving behind the fragile skin of her neck. “I don’t—” she whispered, then sucked in a breath before meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said finally, her voice cracking with emotion. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”