The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Maeve’s cries filled him with rage a moment before he rounded the corner to find her facing down three vampires in full attack mode, shoving at each other to be the first to taste her blood. She was fighting to get away, to reach the safety of the SUV, clearly unaware that these weren’t human brutes, but creatures who could tear the door off the vehicle as easily as open it. All this he saw in an instant, a warrior sizing up the battlefield as he drew breath to destroy his enemies. And when the closest creature reached for her, digging its claws into her delicate skin, trying to drag her back, that breath came out in a thundering roar of defiance and agony, as his wings suddenly broke free and he attacked.

  All three vampires turned to stare in shocked disbelief at his sudden appearance out of the darkness, stunned at the speed with which he stormed across the broken concrete slab. Swinging the sapling like a club at the head of a kneeling vampire, and knocking him aside, he dropped the wood and grabbed the one who’d dared touch Maeve. Closing his one powerful hand around the bastard’s neck, he flung him through air and across the parking lot, to land on the empty road.

  The third vampire—a huge motherfucker—charged as Dragan spun back to the fight, one wing lifted to meet his attacker. The first vamp, the one who’d been struck by the sapling, had the misfortune to lift his head in a snarl just in time to meet the clawed talon of Dragan’s wing. It sliced through his throat, blood pouring in a gush of red liquid, as veins and arteries were severed. But Dragan never paused, never bothered to check his handiwork. He knew his skill, knew the location and threat value of every enemy in the field. This was his milieu, the thing he’d been born to do.

  Continuing the swing of his body, barely slowed by the slice of his wing through the vamp’s throat, Dragan seized the charging vampire by his long hair, dragged him close, and jabbed four fingers into the creature’s throat, tearing through skin, muscle, and sinew to grab his spine and rip it from his body. Ridged edges of bone protruded from the front of the vampire’s neck, a moment before he died in an explosion of dust.

  Only the first of those who would die this night.

  The vampire who’d dared lay claws on Maeve had crawled his way back from the road, and now struggled to his knees as Dragan turned to face him, the flame in his eyes reflected in the vampire’s black gaze as the creature pointed a gun at Dragan and fired.

  Maeve’s scream sounded behind him when the gun went off, as the bullets struck him one after the other. A glance back told him she was secure, standing at the back of the SUV, cargo hatch raised. Assured of her safety, he focused on the impact of the bullets, on the pain he hadn’t known they could inflict until this moment. But there was no time to examine it. He strode forward and tore the weapon from the vampire’s grasp, the metal still hot from the bullets now lodged in his chest. Tossing the gun aside, he wrapped both hands around the vamp’s neck and twisted, nearly tearing his head from his body. The vampire collapsed to the ground as Dragan snatched the gas pump’s nozzle and slammed it into his heart.

  That one was older. He dusted instantly.

  More gunfire sounded behind him, and he turned to see Maeve, weapon gripped in both hands, firing at the vampire whose throat he’d sliced. The vamp was on his knees, blood sticky and black coating his front as he struggled to rise.

  “Vampire,” Dragan called to her. “Destroy his heart.”

  Maeve stared, her eyes wild when they lifted to meet his. But then her lips firmed, and the nod she gave him was pure determination as she fired five rounds directly into the vampire’s heart and watched him dust.

  She was still staring at that pile of dust when Dragan reached her, pulling her into his arms and holding her there, the thud of her racing heart a drumbeat against his aching chest, below the thrumming agony of his torn and bloody back.

  Together they crashed to the ground, his arms around her shoulders, hers around his waist, as they clung to each other and just breathed.

  MAEVE COULDN’T believe what she’d seen Dragan do. She should have expected it. After all, for three years, she’d eaten lunch at the feet of a winged warrior. But the wings had been gone since he’d broken free of the stone, and even then, she hadn’t expected the leathery, taloned wings of a bat. Or, no, not a bat. Bats didn’t have talons. More like a dragon. Dragan . . . dragon. That couldn’t be a coincidence. Her thoughts stuttered to a halt as she clung to him, afraid she’d fall over otherwise. But then she caught the iron tang scent of blood, felt the sticky heat of his skin against her cheek.

  “Oh my God. He shot you.” She pushed back to run shaking fingers over his chest, expecting . . . hell, she didn’t know what to expect. This wasn’t some TV show with a team of doctors snapping orders and equipment beeping away. This was an isolated gas station in the dead of night, in the middle of fucking nowhere. Who even knew where the closest trauma center was? “We have to get you in the car, drive to a hospital—”

  “No.” Dragan’s voice scraped like a serrated blade from his throat, but his grip on her arms was strong. “No”—He hesitated on the next word before continuing. —“medical care. I will heal.”

  “Heal? Are you out of your mind? You were . . . shot.” The last word faded away as she got her first good look at his chest. Yes, it was covered in blood, soaking into the ragged strips of a t-shirt that barely clung to his arms and sides, but. . . . There should have been holes in his chest. She stood to lean over and check his back. And even bigger holes from at least some of the bullets exiting his body.

  There were holes, but they were neat beneath the blood, with the raw, pink flesh of a healing wound. She straightened from her examination, and had to grip his shoulder to keep from falling as her foot slipped on. . . . She gasped. A bullet. No, five bullets! All scattered on the ground around him. She looked up and met his gaze, seeing something there she hadn’t expected. Fear. Not fear of the three vampires he’d just fought, but something more personal. He was afraid of her reaction. To his wings, to whatever magic it was that had kept him alive after suffering wounds that would have killed any other man.

  It hurt her heart to see that look in his eyes. Kneeling in front of him once more, she wrapped her arms around his neck and held on, feeling his arms circle her waist to hold her against him.

  “I don’t care how you do it,” she whispered against his ear. “I’m just glad you’re alive.”

  His arms tightened, as his head dropped to her shoulder. They stayed that way until she heard sirens in the distance. She’d expected it. After all, the station manager had witnessed the whole thing. She just wished they could have avoided what was to come. The questions and suspicious stares, statements and reports, sitting in a county office somewhere, trying to explain . . . wait. What was there to explain? No bodies—the vampires had all dusted, which was a freak show she’d deal with later. For now, however, her boyfriend had defended her from attack, and the bad guys had gotten away. Case closed.

  “The police are coming. The authorities,” she said quickly and jumped to her feet. Running to the open cargo hatch, she dug in the bag for the clothes she’d bought for Dragan at the outlet mall they’d passed, and pulled out a hoodie emblazoned with the name, Cayuhoga Falls. “Put this on. The blood,” she explained, when he gave her a questioning look.

  They were both standing when the lone police car pulled into the station, lights flashing, the siren winding down with a mournful howl as they came to a halt. The vehicle doors opened at the same time on both sides, and two officers stepped out. Both were big men, with broad shoulders straining the cloth of their uniform shirts. One appeared to be in his thirties, but the other was older—in his forties maybe, with salt threaded through the pepper in his thick hair.

  Dragan straightened to his full height next to her, muscles clenching in readiness. “Vampires,” he whispered so softly that she’d never have heard it if his lips hadn’t been pressed against her ear.
She tried not to react, sliding under his arm, pretending to be more shaken than she was. Which was saying something. Because all of this—the vampires, the blood, the dust? It was fucked in so many ways to Sunday that she didn’t think she’d ever experience its equal.

  Dragan responded by dropping his arm over her shoulders and tugging her close, while she stared at the newcomers, trying to figure out how he’d known that these two were also vampires. She watched them closely, eyeing every move, inhaling deeply enough to breathe in their scent as they came closer.

  “What were those things?” she asked Dragan in a stage whisper, letting her voice shake, so the vampires would hear not just the words, but the emotion.

  “Don’t worry, Mae,” he murmured. “They’re gone.”

  But she noticed his eyes never left the two new vampires, and their eyes never left him.

  “Can we leave?” she asked fretfully, then turned to the two officers. “Can we leave?” she repeated, still pretending to be a lot dumber than she was. Everyone knew you couldn’t simply walk away from a crime scene, even if there were no bodies. “Do we have to go to your station or something? Can’t you just look at the security cameras here?” She only asked that last, because she’d checked when they first arrived to be sure there weren’t any. Not because she’d expected vampires to attack, but because Sotiris, or his people, were probably still looking for them. She couldn’t forget that for a moment, because if she did, he’d find them.

  “No cameras,” the younger cop said. “Never have been.”

  “Oh,” she said in a small voice. “Babe?” she asked Dragan, not wanting to say his name. “What happens now?”

  “Nothing,” Dragan purred, still staring at the older-appearing vampire. “These good . . . men don’t want a record of what happened here.”

  The gray-haired cop shifted his gaze from Dragan to Maeve. “You were attacked?”

  “Yes, sir,” she insisted. “I was finishing with the gas, while he used the restroom. Those three . . . ” She hesitated, not knowing whether to admit she knew they’d been vampires. “They came out of nowhere. I don’t know what they wanted. They never said, just grabbed me and—” She buried her face against Dragan’s side and shivered dramatically, as if overcome with emotion. And she was, more than a little. She’d been physically attacked. For the first time in her life, she understood how vulnerable she was. Despite the personal defense classes she’d dutifully taken in every school she’d ever attended, she’d never truly believed she’d be the one attacked.

  Dragan’s hand cupped the back of her head, and she felt the touch of his lips on her hair. “It’s okay, Mae. Why don’t you wait in the car? It’s getting cold. I’ll handle this.”

  She looked up at him, wanting to be sure he’d meant what he’d said. When he gave her a quick nod, she patted his chest, then turned to the officers, hugging herself. “Is that okay? If I go wait in the car?”

  The older one touched the brim of his uniform hat, with a nod. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure your boyfriend here”—His eyes were hooded when they slid to Dragan. —“can answer any questions we have. You go get warmed up. There’s coffee inside the station if you want.”

  “I have a thermos of tea,” she demurred. “But thank you.” She gave Dragan a final lingering glance, trailing her fingers over his as she walked back to the SUV. She checked the latch on the gas tank door, walked around the back to shut the cargo door, then finally slid into the driver’s seat and turned on the engine. Heat began to flow and warm the vehicle, but she barely noticed. Her attention was solely on the view through the windshield, wishing she could read lips as Dragan faced off with the two vampire cops.

  THE VAMPIRE WAITED until Maeve was in the SUV, with the engine on, and presumably, the heat running. Dragan met her gaze through the windshield, before returning his full attention to the older-appearing vampire. He wondered if the uniform was real, and if it was, whether the residents in this area were aware that at least some of their cops were less than human. Or, for that matter, if most of the residents were fully human themselves.

  The vampire spoke at last, leaning toward Dragan in an open display of dominance. “I don’t know what you are, boy, but—”

  “What I am not, vampire, is a boy,” Dragan interrupted with a growl, reminding him that they were both something other than human, and warning him that the attempt at dominance wasn’t going to work. Dragan was aware of the other officer, also a vampire, staring at him from the space next to the gas pumps, where the piles of dust were already beginning to disperse. If there was going to be violence, it wouldn’t begin with that one.

  The senior vampire’s jaw flexed hard enough to show white bone beneath his skin, before he ground out a response. “I don’t care what the fuck you call yourself. What you are is trouble, and I don’t want it in my town.”

  “They deserved what they got. They attacked my woman,” Dragan countered. She wasn’t precisely that, but he didn’t want to give this vampire any more than he had to. Especially not about Maeve. “I defended her, which is my right.”

  “Not sure about that, but it’s your lucky day. Those three idiots have brought nothing but grief to people hereabouts. Now, they’re gone. And you should be, too.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to do.”

  “Then I’ll wish you a pleasant journey.” The vampire took a step back and extended his arm, as if granting Dragan leave to go.

  The arrogance of the gesture made Dragan long to eliminate two more vampires from the town. But he was mindful of Maeve watching from the SUV, could almost sense her fear for him. As if the vampire had been created who could defeat him in battle. But she didn’t know that.

  So, giving the smug vamp a final slow glance, he walked back to the SUV and climbed in next to Maeve. The minute he closed the door, he realized the extent of her concern. The look she gave him was wide-eyed with uncertainty, and her fingers were shaking slightly when she pushed the gear into drive and, far more slowly than was her usual wont, pulled back onto the dark highway.

  Neither of them said anything at first, but once the lights of the station were no longer visible in the rearview mirror, she asked, “Are you okay? Your back?”

  Dragan was stunned that his welfare would be her first concern. In all the years he’d fought for his father’s people, no one, not even the priests, had ever voiced any concern for his battle wounds, or anything else. That had changed when he’d joined Nicodemus’s army, but those early years had long ago shaped his expectations.

  “I’m fine. The back will heal quickly. It’s—” He hesitated, unsure how to describe the magic that had been his goddess’s gift. “That is—”

  “So you really do have wings,” she said, sparing him the effort. “I thought maybe—” She shrugged. “—maybe it was just the statue. You know, like Sotiris making fun of whoever you were back then.”

  “No, they’re real,” he admitted, certain she’d reject him now that she knew the monster he truly was.

  “But how? I mean, they can’t fit into your back, so where. . . . Wait, does it bother you to talk about this?”

  He turned to study her profile, trying to decide if she was mocking him, treating him like a curiosity and not a man. But when she glanced over at his silence, he saw nothing but . . . Maeve. Her eyes were clear of deception, bright with curiosity. Her heart had slowed to almost a normal rhythm, and her hands were once more steady on the wheel of the speeding SUV.

  “It doesn’t trouble me,” he said. “It’s just that . . . no one’s ever asked before.”

  She shot him a disbelieving look. “No one? What about those guys you fought with? The ones you call your brothers? Didn’t they ever—?”

  His laugh interrupted her. “I was the least of the curiosities in that world. As for—”

  “You’re not a curiosity,” sh
e said sharply. “You’re . . . you were magnificent back there.”

  He smiled, puzzled by her defense of him, but continued. “My brothers and I each had our particular skills. Their only care was that I had their backs, and I cared the same.”

  “We’ll find your Nico,” she said with a confidence he didn’t understand. She turned her head in a quick smile, as if sensing his doubt. “We will. You’ll see.”

  “The wings,” he said, not sure how to respond otherwise. “You have to understand that the world I come from was not only most likely physically separate from this one, but also millennia ago. The place I was born, where my father ruled as king, doesn’t exist anymore. But it was very real then, as were the gods who interfered far more than some would have liked in the lives of regular humans. In my family’s case, we lived on an island that was covered with forests and plentiful with game, with rich, black soil in which all manner of crops flourished. Our goddess had no name for us. She was ‘the goddess’ and we all knew that she claimed our island, our homes, for herself. I grew up surrounded by priests, but even they didn’t know how the goddess came to be ours. It simply was, and as her protection benefitted the people, no one questioned.”

  “She protected you?”

  He smiled bitterly. “Not me. She chose a man, the second royal son of each generation, to serve as her avatar to ensure the protection of her island and its people. I was such a one. Blessed by her at birth, I was taken from my mother’s breast, and raised among the priests, taught to fight and nothing else. The magic she bestowed manifested physically in the wings on my back, so that her enemies were terrified before they were slaughtered.”

  “But . . . your wings weren’t magic. They were real. I mean, you nearly killed that one guy, that vampire, with your wing.”