The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Opening the small bar behind the front seats, he cracked open a bottle of single malt scotch and poured a conservative two fingers. They weren’t out of danger yet, and wouldn’t be until they’d crossed back into the U.S., but he no longer had to worry about rescheduling his internationally promoted demonstration, which was a huge burden off his shoulders. Maintaining the promised schedule would please his clients, and protect his profit margin, which would be considerable.

  But that reminded him of why he’d had to rush down to Mexico, and his mood soured. His device didn’t need Dragan anymore. He should have been celebrating right now, might even have pulled his investigator off the case, if that bitch hadn’t walked off with the fucking hexagon. It never would have existed if not for the worst kind of betrayal, and now he’d been betrayed again. The worst of it was that the girl couldn’t possibly know what she’d stolen. She didn’t have an ounce of magic in her. He’d never have hired her if she did.

  And now, he couldn’t risk the damn thing getting back to Nicodemus Katsaros. Its return would radically alter the balance of power between them.

  Tossing back the rest of his scotch, he acknowledged again that he’d been a fool to keep it—he should have destroyed it the first moment it reached him. But he’d drawn such smug pleasure from owning it, from knowing that so much power had been invested in it for nothing . . . as long as it remained in his own grasp. When he retrieved it this time, he vowed to himself, he would destroy it. There was no end to the number of people he would kill to make sure that happened.

  Stabbing in his investigator’s number, he listened to it ring . . . and ring. He disconnected in a fury. The fucker was supposed to be available 24/7 to Sotiris’s calls. The only time he hadn’t been in the past was when. . . . Oh. It was possible he’d found them and was either eliminating the problem at this very moment, or was stalking them and unable to talk. It still wasn’t acceptable—the idiot could have texted—but he’d give the man an hour to respond. And in the meantime . . . he typed a quick message, telling the investigator to search the bodies, their car, anything they had with them, and find that fucking hexagon.

  Forcing himself to wait—something he rarely had to do—he turned to the next problem of where to stage the test demonstration of his device. Opening his tablet, he began paging through a series of wide-ranging news sites, covering every major event from coast to coast. He didn’t want anything too high-profile, nothing involving Hollywood stars or, God forbid, politicians. But there were concerts and games. Americans were very fond of their sporting events, which were often held in massive outdoor stadiums. Perfect in terms of recording the device’s effect. It shouldn’t be too difficult to find one that—

  His eyes widened when he found it—oh, this was almost too perfect. If he’d been a more superstitious man, he wouldn’t have tempted fate in this manner, but he believed first and foremost in himself. He made his own fate, and preferred to think of this serendipitous opportunity as proof that he’d made the right decisions and was proceeding down the smart path.

  Because if he tested his device in Florida, it would definitely lure that insufferable bastard Katsaros out into the open. And if Sotiris’s investigator returned the hexagon into his hands before that happened . . .

  He smiled. He would destroy Nicodemus Katsaros for good this time. At last.

  Chapter Ten

  Somewhere on I-95, heading south to Florida

  THE FOLLOWING morning found Maeve and Dragan on the road once more, this time a straight shot on the interstate to Florida. They started late and stopped once for gas, and so arrived in Orlando just after sunset, despite the relatively short distance. They could have driven farther, but Maeve had convinced Dragan that they should hold up in Orlando for a day to regroup before the final drive to Pompano Beach and hopefully the home of Nicodemus (aka Nicholas) Katsaros. She’d told herself it was a necessary stop, that she needed time to make sure they were chasing the right person. That she wanted to save Dragan the pain of showing up at a stranger’s house to discover that Nicholas Katsaros was not his Nico.

  But in her most private heart, she knew it was more than that. She wanted Dragan all to herself for one more day, one more night. Because once he was reunited with his friends, she’d be forgotten. Well, maybe not forgotten, but thanked for her help and sent on her way . . . alone. The pain she felt at that prospect reminded her that she’d mistaken necessity for attraction. He was with her because she’d been the only person in the house, the only one who could help him escape before Sotiris returned. And yeah, they’d had some good times, but that wasn’t the same as love. Not that she was any expert on love, but she sure as hell knew what she was feeling now. And it hurt like hell.

  “They have castles here?” Dragan asked as they drove past a huge billboard advertising, what else?—Disney World.

  “No. That’s . . . I guess you’d call it a fake castle. It’s part of an amusement park, which is like a whole city with all kinds of fun rides, like rollercoasters and stuff.”

  “Rollercoasters?” he repeated, pronouncing the words as if they made no sense.

  “I’ll show you pictures. It’s difficult to describe. But a lot of people love them, mostly because they like being scared to death.”

  He studied her silently for a moment, then shrugged. “And this is where you want to remain for two nights? Do you want the rollercoaster to scare you to death?”

  She snorted. “Hell, no. Between thuggish vampires and Sotiris, I’m already scared to death. There’s only so much adrenaline a body can take.”

  His only response was a wordless grunt, which could have been agreement, or just as easily might mean he had no idea what she was talking about. Either way, it suited Maeve, because as she’d told him, some things had to be seen to be believed.

  “I made a reservation online, since this is a popular place.” She glanced at the navigation system, which was guiding her to the hotel. “There’s a good-sized shopping area nearby, so we can buy you some more clothes—something more suitable for greeting your long-lost leader, right?”

  “Nico won’t care what I’m wearing. I have my blade and my magic. That will be enough for him.”

  “Your magic?” she asked. “Has . . . your goddess filled it up again?”

  “Well enough. Though if not, Nico will be able to restore it completely.”

  “But your Nico’s a sorcerer, like Sotiris. Is his magic a good thing for you?”

  “Not like Sotiris. Though Nico is not one thing or the other, not always good, nor always bad. His goal was to better the lives of his people, which is a worthy thing, but he had to wage war to achieve it, and people die in war. It is the nature of the beast.”

  “But he never killed Sotiris?”

  “In our last battle, before we were cursed, it was evident that Nico’s power was greater, and that Sotiris would finally be destroyed. There would have been no choice for Nico but to kill him outright. You cannot leave a sorcerer like Sotiris at your back. He knows nothing of honor. Witness the curse he placed on my brothers and me. It was a terrible, cruel fate that he wished for us.”

  She nodded silently. The nav system chose that moment to announce their arrival, sparing her the need to comment. She wasn’t a child. She understood that in war people were killed, and that good people sometimes killed, too. But she had trouble reconciling the Dragan who spoke so easily of death with the warm, compassionate man she’d come to know. There was no answer for that conundrum, and certainly nothing she was willing to discuss with Dragan, given their situation. So she focused on the road, until finally they were pulling up in front of a very nice hotel, with several restaurants and a spa. Maybe she and Dragan could get a couples’ massage. She swallowed her laughter at the idea. If she couldn’t explain rollercoasters to him, how the hell could she explain that?

  They let the val
et take the car, but carried their own luggage since they didn’t have much anyway—not to mention a huge-ass sword that Dragan refused to relinquish. It had been necessary to use an old credit card to make this reservation, so Maeve had already checked in using her phone app and requesting a digital key, which meant they were able to go directly up to the room. A room with two beds again. She’d contemplated getting just one big bed, but had chickened out.

  Dragan didn’t seem to notice the bed situation. Or maybe he assumed all hotel rooms had two beds. He placed his sword on the table, dropped her big suitcase on the bed nearest the window, and pulled back the drapes to look out.

  “This is a big city,” he commented. “What’s it called?”

  She walked over to stand next to him. “Orlando, Florida.”

  “Orlando,” he repeated, as if committing it to memory. He put a relaxed arm around her shoulders and tugged her close.

  She went willingly, amazed at how easy it felt. He was the most deadly person she’d ever met, and yet she was more comfortable with him than . . . anyone she knew. She didn’t believe in fate and all that love at first sight stuff, but after everything that had happened and everything she’d seen, she had to believe in magic. So maybe it wasn’t just coincidence that she’d been the one to free Dragan from his prison after so many centuries.

  “Shall we walk the town a bit?” he asked, nodding at the pedestrian village visible from their hotel. “Will you walk with me, sweet Mae?” he asked, with a kiss on top of her head.

  A spark of happiness warmed her from the inside, making her smile as she looked up at him. “Let’s. After all those hours in the car, we can both use it. I’ll arm up, just in case.”

  He stood back to give her a puzzled look. “Is it permitted? I don’t see any weapons out there,” he said pointing to the people wandering the shopping area.

  She opened her simple black gun case, and took out the paddle holster for her Glock. “That’s because most of them are tourists. But also, Florida’s a concealed carry state. You’re supposed to have a permit, which we don’t, but you can carry a weapon, just not in sight.”

  “That seems a strange law.”

  “I guess, but it works in our favor, so I’m not going to argue.” She zipped the case closed and hooked the holster to her belt. Dragan walked over to watch what she was doing, and the heat and scent of him was so strong that she had to fight the urge to lean in and soak him up.

  “I doubt I can conceal my blade in these clothes. Is the knife acceptable?”

  “Sure,” she said, not really knowing if it was legal or not. But if a gun was okay, why not a belt knife? Taking note of the minimal coverage his hoodie provided for the weapon, she decided they were going to buy him some new clothes at the first decent shop they encountered.

  Once he seemed settled with the belt knife, and one more in his boot, she smiled up at him. “Ready?”

  The grin he gave her in return was breathtaking. Literally. He’d always been beautiful, but now he looked . . . happy. It made her heart ache with fear for him. What if this Nick Katsaros they were hurrying to meet wasn’t his Nicodemus? Or what if the millennia they’d spent apart had turned him into an entirely different sort of man? Or, worst of all, what if his brothers were still lost or even dead? She swallowed her fears—which were her own, not his—and took the hand he held out to her.

  IT WAS FULL DARK by the time they reached the area Maeve had called a “shopping village.” It didn’t look like any village Dragan had known, but it felt good to stroll down the crowded walks, with the shops and trees lit up like a festival. There’d been many festivals in his village, though he’d never been welcome at any of them. But here, with Maeve’s hand in his and the scents and sounds of happiness all around them, it was like nothing he’d ever dreamed of in his stone prison. He was . . . content. More than content, really, but he didn’t trust the fates enough to tempt them with any greater emotion.

  “In here,” Maeve said abruptly and tugged him into a store. “You need more clothes.”

  Dragan glanced down at the very comfortable jeans and boots he was wearing, felt the snug security of his knife beneath the soft jacket, a second one in his boot, and didn’t know why he needed more. But she was insistent, and he was predisposed to indulge her, so he followed.

  They emerged from the store with more bags than he felt good about. It wasn’t the contents that bothered him. It was how the need to carry so many items occupied his hands. Hands he might very well need to protect Maeve. It was an awareness that in no way discounted her ability to defend herself when it came to rude boys or even rowdy men, but the moment they’d left the store, his instincts had begun screaming a warning. The crowds of happy people that had pleased him earlier were now a shield for his enemy. Somewhere nearby, hidden in those crowds, was a threat. Someone was watching and waiting for the perfect opportunity.

  “We should return to our room,” he said, gathering the bags in one hand and putting the other around her back to steer her toward the hotel. When she gave him a surprised look, he added, “All these bags. I’ve no more room.”

  She glanced down, as if counting the packages, then nodded. “Okay.”

  MAEVE HELD THE hotel room door open as Dragan pushed the food cart out into the hallway and left it there, then waited, eyes downcast, until he’d walked back into the room so she could close and lock the door. The evening had started off easily enough. While they’d waited for dinner, she’d persuaded Dragan to try on his new clothes. He’d pointed out that he’d already tried everything on in the store, but had gone along since, in his words, she’d asked so sweetly. Maeve thought that might be the first time anyone had accused her of sweet persuasion, and found she didn’t mind it coming from him.

  He tried on everything, but made his preferences very clear. He liked the jeans and t-shirts far more than the slacks and button-down shirts. Maeve couldn’t disagree with that. He looked quite fine in the jeans, but then he looked fine in everything. She’d only picked out the slightly less casual clothes, because she’d had a thought—perhaps misplaced—that he should wear something nicer when meeting Nico after so long. He hadn’t fought her on it, so maybe he agreed. Or maybe he’d gone along just to hasten their exit from the store.

  The idea made her smile, but it was short-lived. Because now came the hard part. Bad choice of words, she thought, but all too apt, since they were getting ready for bed. Dragan was already brushing his teeth—an activity he seemed to enjoy—and then he’d undress and . . . Would he want to sleep together? She wanted to, but what if he didn’t? What if he had been put off by her inexperience, and longed instead for a real woman? Someone who knew what a man like Dragan needed after a very, very long dry spell? Maybe he’d want—?

  “I can hear you thinking, sweet Mae. You worry too much. Go. Wash your face and what other womanly things you do.”

  The sexist comment had her head snapping up with a glare, but he only smiled, as if he’d done it on purpose.

  He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the mouth, then tilted his head in a wordless gesture toward the bathroom. Maeve sighed and went.

  When she’d brushed every tooth long enough to endanger the enamel, then washed and moisturized her face, she donned her bedtime uniform of sweats, tank, and hoodie and ventured out into the bedroom. Dragan lay on his back, looking utterly relaxed as always, the sheet pulled up to his waist, chest bare and arms crossed behind his head. His gaze followed as she came around the bed—the only bed, since her suitcase was still sitting on the other one.

  When she finally looked up, he scanned her overdressed form, top to bottom, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Are you cold?” It was a simple question, but a single raised eyebrow said more than his words.

  Feeling silly, and way younger than her years, she unzipped the hoodie and tossed it on the other bed. For Christ’s sak
e, she was about to climb into bed with the guy. The same guy who, the night before, had all but stripped her bare and used his fingers to—She blushed just thinking about it, then gritted her teeth, and with a sharp internal scolding, shoved her sweatpants down her legs and stepped out of them too, leaving her wearing nothing but tiny panties and her tank top, which barely managed to contain her breasts.

  He held up the sheet in invitation. She put one knee on the bed, which gave her a glimpse of what the sheet had been hiding—nothing but smooth, masculine skin over a flat belly and. . . . She sucked in a discreet breath. He wore sweat pants, but they were shoved down so far that they barely covered the bulge of his very erect . . .

  Well, okay, then.

  She slid into bed, drawn as always to the heat and scent of him. It was as if he gave off a specific pheromone aimed at attracting her. Although he didn’t have to work hard. She was already thoroughly seduced, even though they hadn’t actually had sex. She intended to change that, however. Not because she’d suddenly grown bold, but because the admiring looks he’d attracted while they shopped had engendered awareness on an entirely different level that he was a beautiful specimen of maleness. She’d known that from the moment she first saw him, but not like this. Not like a woman who’d experienced him sexually, a woman who’d orgasmed on his fingers while lying nearly naked next to him. He was a man that any woman would be thrilled to have in her bed. And he was hers. At least for now.

  “There you go,” he murmured, his voice a soft purr against her skin when she slid beneath the sheet and cuddled up to him.

  What the hell was she fighting for? She wanted him. He apparently wanted her. And since the next few days were almost certainly going to be the most dangerous of her life, she sure as hell wasn’t going to die without making love to him just once. At least once, she corrected herself.