The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  On the other hand . . . since Maeve wasn’t a dog to stay on command, she decided to give Dragan the opportunity he needed. Lifting her Glock, she fired at the spot on the wall where she’d seen the shadow.

  The shooter—or someone she hoped wasn’t Dragan—cursed. One word, snapped out in a voice that started loud and ended in a hiss of breath. Definitely not Dragan. As if to confirm her assumption, the same man abruptly surrendered all stealth and screamed in fear. Curious, Maeve stuck her head up just in time to see Dragan, shirt gone, muscles bulging, and wings fully deployed, as he literally flew down the length of the garage, cruising a few feet above the grease-stained concrete floor. His face was a terrifying mask of fury, his teeth bared like some creature out of myth come to seek revenge.

  The shooter stepped into the open to face him, hand shaking only a little as he aimed his gun at Dragan and fired. Maeve rose to her feet and fired before he did. Three rounds, just as she’d been taught, struck him between the shoulder blades, throwing his own shots off so they missed, but not moving him enough to stop Dragan from dropping before him and sliding one taloned wing across his belly, ripping him open to the stench of human waste, as bloody pink guts spilled into the air.

  Dragan didn’t so much as pause to review his work. Turning a furious glare on her, he closed the distance between them with several hard strides. “What the fuck did you think you were doing? I told you to stay where you were. You could have been killed!”

  She’d been all prepared to soothe his tortured soul, since he’d seemed to hate the magic that produced his fighting form, but his raging words hit her like a slap of cold water. A slap that quickly sizzled out of existence as her own anger swept up to meet his.

  “I am not a fucking dog. I’m as capable as you are of defending both of us. I saw a need and I reacted. Effectively! Now, if you’re finished snorting like a chauvinist pig, I’d like to search the dead guy for any ID before that old couple stumbles out of the elevator and calls the cops. You okay with that?”

  He’d been staring at her with eyes hot with anger in an otherwise flat expression, but when she finished, the anger disappeared and a smile lifted his lips. “Well done, then. Can your maidenly hands handle searching a gutted man, or would you like me to take care of that?”

  She rolled her eyes, hiding her own smile, which was as much relief as amusement. “I’ll do it. I may barf, but I’ll do it. You—” She gestured at his wings and naked chest. “—need to clean off as much as you can and put on a shirt, just in case someone really does stumble on this.”

  “You’re sure?” She gave him a look that made him laugh, but when he would have gathered her in for a kiss, she pushed him away.

  “Guts!” she protested. “You’ve got bad guy guts all over you.” She then went up on her toes and kissed him several times. “Love you,” she said without thinking, then turned her face away so he wouldn’t see the rush of embarrassment lighting her up in bright red. “I’ll see if he has any ID or anything on him,” she hurried to add, filling the empty space left by her impulsive words. “If there’s a cell phone, I can check his calls, see where they lead, whether they’re to Sotiris or someone else.”

  “What if they don’t?” he asked, his voice muffled by his position bent into the rear cargo space of the SUV as he rummaged for a clean shirt.

  She paused long enough to stare. He seemed unaffected by her declaration of love. Maybe he hadn’t heard. Or maybe he didn’t care. The thought hurt more than it should have. Sure, she hadn’t meant to say it, but now that she had. . . . Fuck. Life had been so much simpler before she’d had sex. “If he’s not here on Sotiris’s orders,” she said finally, getting back to her gruesome task. “Then we’re in deeper shit than we think. You have any other enemies I need to know about?”

  “Not in this world. Not that I know of, anyway,” he said, still in that casual, nothing-to-see-here tone, like her world hadn’t just tilted on its axis.

  Telling herself to move, to deal with the immediate situation first, she pulled out her knife, flicked it open, and used it to lift the guy’s bloody jacket open. Grimacing, she forced herself to dip two fingers into his pockets, fighting the urge to throw up, or scream. She wasn’t sure which. Odd how she’d had no qualms about shooting him, or seeing Dragan rip him open like an overripe fruit, but touching him was a completely different thing. She’d be washing her hands for days.

  Mindful of her mini-lecture to Dragan, she sucked it up and did a thorough search. The guy had the usual assortment of ID—wallet, New York PI license—interesting since Sotiris had more than one residence there—and a business card with nothing but an address and phone number. Probably an office, though it might be useful. There was also a cell phone, naturally. One could hardly do business without it these days, especially not a guy who probably spent most of his time out of the office.

  Holding the items in one hand, she walked over to the SUV just as Dragan was getting ready to close the back hatch. Reaching in, she emptied a plastic bag of road trip snacks and stuffed the dead man’s ID into it instead. Yuck.

  “Let’s go,” she said, pouring one of the bottles of water over her hands and drying them on her pants. “We’ll examine this stuff later, but right now, we need to leave.”

  Dragan nodded and, with a glance at her wet and still somewhat bloody hands, walked around and slid into the driver’s seat.

  She sighed, but knew he had the right of it. Besides, he’d become a pretty good driver over the last couple days, giving credence to his insistence that the SUV was just one more weapon that he’d master as quickly as any other. Walking to the passenger side, she used her left, slightly cleaner, hand to open the back door, then reached under the seat for the oil rag she kept handy, even though she’d never checked her own oil. That was fortunate now, since it gave her a clean rag to wipe her hands on.

  Once they were as clean as she could make them, under the circumstances, she dropped the rag onto floor, then closed the door and slid into the front passenger seat. “You know how to get out of this place?”

  He was already pulling out of the parking space. “I simply find a down ramp and take it.”

  “You might have to go up a level to avoid running over the dead guy.” Like a squirrel in the road, she thought gruesomely. Double yuck.

  “Got it.”

  She could have launched into a lecture about down ramps vs. up ramps, but found she really didn’t care. As it was, they made it safely out of the garage without passing another vehicle, though it occurred to her that once the police found the body, they’d be checking the garage security video, if it existed. But they couldn’t do anything about that.

  “What about the body?” he asked, as if reading her thoughts.

  “There’s nothing to connect him to us, and I didn’t see any obvious cameras or warning notices inside the garage, so we might be clear there. They probably have video at the exits, but other cars left when we did, so . . .” She shrugged. “Nothing else we can do.” A sudden urge to yawn surprised her. She swallowed it, but he caught it anyway.

  “Post-battle rush,” he commented, his eyes on the road. “It happens to all of us.”

  Adrenaline, she realized. He was talking about adrenaline letdown. She’d read about that, but had never experienced it.

  “You good to drive?” she asked, thinking his own post-battle rush had to be greater than hers. Since he sprouted fucking wings.

  “Sure. I’ve plenty of experience with it. The post-battle letdown, I mean.”

  Unlike her, she thought, though he was too polite to say it. Although her lack of battle hardening could hardly be considered a deficit, since this was her first one. Right?

  They drove without stopping until they were on the outskirts of Pompano Beach, where they pulled into a large shopping area that included a restaurant and gas station, along w
ith the usual grocery and other retail stores. Despite their big dinner earlier, they were both hungry, which Maeve wrote off to more of that post-battle stuff. They’d both expended a lot of energy taking down the shooter, and that had been just over three hours ago. After deciding to go into the restaurant instead of grabbing take-out, she proceeded to order a giant hamburger and fries, plus a chocolate shake, and did it without a twinge of guilt. Dragan doubled her order. So maybe there were good things about adrenaline rush.

  She waited until they were both finished chomping down on their food as if they were starving, until the waitress had taken their orders for pie and ice cream without so much as a raised eyebrow and disappeared with the dirty plates . . . then, leaning back against the vinyl-covered booth, she took a sip of water and met Dragan’s gaze.

  “We’re almost there,” she said. “Thirty minutes, maybe less, and we’ll be there. Not at the house, but in the city, like we planned.” She tried to keep the sadness from her voice, knowing for Dragan this might be . . . she didn’t have words to describe it. Cosmic, life-changing. The culmination of a centuries-long imprisonment. He was about to come face-to-face with the most important man in his life. The one who’d freed him from the life he’d been born to, a life he’d hated. The man who’d given him back his honor, and most importantly, friendship and a family who cared for him.

  Dragan looked at her. “He lives here?”

  “In Pompano Beach, anyway. On the waterfront. I don’t know this city, but from what I’ve read, he lives in an exclusive neighborhood. I’m assuming he has lots of money.”

  “He was a king’s son when I first served him, and as his power grew, he acquired lands of his own. But now? In this world?” He shrugged. “I have no way of knowing, though apart from his sorcerous power, he was also quite intelligent, and ruthless when he needed to be.”

  “Well,” she said gently. “It’s up to you. That motel we just passed has vacancies. We can hole up there and get some sleep tonight, then wait until tomorrow afternoon, when we’re both rested. Or, if you prefer,” she hurried to add, “we’ll drive straight over there tonight. Though I’d probably call first if we went tonight. It’s not late for some people, but for others . . .”

  “You know his phone number?”

  “I have a number, from his driver’s license application. I don’t know if it’s his home or office, or even if he still uses it, but we can try.”

  He looked at her, his expression serious, giving no indication of what he wanted to do. After a bit, he glanced at the industrial-style clock on the wall, then back to her. “Tomorrow night. You’re right. It’s late and we both need to shower. And you need to rest.”

  She drew a sharp breath, ready to argue that they both needed rest, but the look on his face stopped her. He was . . . not frightened—Dragan rarely showed fear. But unsure, maybe? Worried about the reception he’d get at his leader’s home. Worried he’d been forgotten? He’d seemed so confident before that his Nico would have searched for him, that he’d never have been forgotten, and would be greeted with open arms. That Dragan’s enemies would become Nico’s enemies, and those of his brothers, too.

  The waitress interrupted with their pie. Maeve glanced up. “Could we get that to go? And I’ll take the check, thanks.”

  “Sure thing.” She dug in her pocket for the bill, dropped it on the table, and picked up the two plates of pie and ice cream. “You want the ice cream, too?”

  “Can you put it in cups or something?”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  Maeve looked at the bill, then left enough cash for a generous tip, and slid out of the booth. “Come on,” she said, taking the bag from the waitress when they passed her. “Let’s go find a room before the ice cream melts.”

  She wanted to wrap her arms around him, tell him everything would work out. She wanted to comfort him, which was ridiculous. He was this huge, absolutely confident and hardened warrior, while she was just a computer geek with impossible dreams. She glanced up at him and thought, what the hell. Everyone needed a hug now and then.

  Taking his hand, she twined her arm around his and leaned in so their bodies touched. His fingers tightened on hers, and she smiled. “I’m looking forward to that shower.”

  Pompano Beach, FL

  NICK KATSAROS LEANED back in his chair, studying the late-night stock market report with the sound off on the big screen TV across the room. He’d been uncharacteristically restless for the past few days, though some might have argued that restlessness was hardly unusual for him. But whatever his normal mode, he was definitely more twitchy than usual, and he knew why. He’d been consumed with thoughts of Dragan, had thought of little else. He’d performed more than one seeking spell, but having no idea where his last imprisoned warrior might be, he’d been forced to cast such a wide net that it had made the spell almost useless. If only his network of investigators had unearthed some hint of where Dragan had ended up, he’d have had a place to start, at least.

  He shouldn’t have been surprised at the absence of clues. His other three warriors, all of whom had been freed in the last two years, had been hidden from his magic, too, until the moment their curses had been lifted. He assumed it would be the same with Dragan. If he’d been freed, he should have been visible, and if not, then completely hidden. So why did Nick have this persistent feeling he was missing something?

  Dragan, of course, was different than the others. All four were magic-touched in some way. Damian was a product of Nick’s own magic, Kato was the son of a legendary black witch, and Gabriel was a vampire whom Nick had “cured” by casting a spell to undo much of what had made him vampire. That spell had gone spectacularly bad in a way he hadn’t foreseen, due mostly, he thought, to the damn curse. But that wasn’t the point. The three all had some magical element. Dragan did, too, but he’d been goddess-touched at birth, chosen to be her warrior and work her will until he died. The whole gods and goddesses thing got confusing, what with so many false gods littered about, but he’d never had any doubt that Dragan’s goddess was real. So it was just possible that Dragan could have been released, and he wouldn’t have felt it as strongly as he had the others, because it was Dragan’s goddess who’d created him. Just as Nick had created Damian.

  Which, quite simply, pissed him off. How was he supposed to find Dragan, if he couldn’t be sure he’d been released, and had no sign for his spell to follow? And if they had no connection, how the fucking hell was Dragan supposed to find him?

  He flicked off the TV when his cell phone rang, since he hadn’t been paying any attention anyway. Picking up the phone, he glanced at the caller ID and grinned. At last, something good had come of this day.

  “Cyn baby,” he answered. “Calling to tell me you’ve come to your senses at last?”

  “In what way?” she responded dryly.

  “By dumping the bloodsucker, of course. Come back to the sunlight!”

  “Ha ha. So funny. Not. No, this is a serious call.”

  “I was being serious,” he muttered, then, “What’s up?”

  “Raphael was going to call, but I persuaded him to let me do it, since you two would spend twenty minutes insulting each other, and then hang up without getting anything done.”

  “I don’t see any downside there.”

  “Exactly. The ‘downside’ as you put it, is that you wouldn’t get a piece of news that I think you’re going to want.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Christian called. You know who he is?”

  “Sure. Raphael’s flunky down south.”

  Her deep sigh told him the jab had hit its target. He smiled, even though he loved Cyn. “Sorry. Tell me what your Vampire Lord Christian had to say.”

  “Say ‘please.’”

  “So cruel. Please, Cyn baby.”

  Another deep
sigh. “Can we be serious now?”

  “Yes, dear.”

  A few seconds passed during which he thought she might actually hang up and let her bloodsucker lover do his own calling, but then she said, “Okay. So Raphael and Christian were talking about general stuff, when he mentioned a report he’d received from one of his vampires in West Virginia—that’s part of Christian’s territory. Anyway, the guy’s a small-town sheriff down there, and before you ask, I don’t know why.”

  Nick opened his mouth to comment—not favorably—on a vampire being sheriff, but decided he wanted to hear the report instead. Cyn wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important.

  “It seems this vamp sheriff had a run-in with a creature he’d never encountered before, a creature who killed three of his vampires. No loss on the vamps, since they were troublemakers who’d been one bad night away from a stake for a long time. But the interesting part is that, although this creature appeared human, the vamp’s senses were telling him he wasn’t. And when he talked to the gas station owner—that’s where everything went down, at a gas station—the owner insisted the guy had wings. I mean, the creature—whatever he was—had wings. Bat wings, with huge talons that he used to slice the vamps open after they attacked his girlfriend.”