The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Like his own, Sotiris’s power was too strong to remain undetected. If he drew within a few blocks of the penthouse, Nick would sense his approach, despite the interference of so many human minds, and even a few minor magic workers.

  “Ah,” he said, almost laughing when he found the last ward. It was so simple that most searchers would have overlooked it, assuming any ward set by the great Sotiris would be both complex and deadly. This one was deadly, but not because of any complexity. When triggered, it released an all-too-human creation—a deadly gas that would kill the unwary within seconds. Disabling the ward was a simple matter of draining the small amount of magic used in the trigger.

  Satisfied at last, he drew a long breath and turned the knob. The door was locked via non-magical means, but that was no impediment. After a bit of small magic, he let it fall open on its hinges, which it did slowly, only to stop after little more than a foot. Nick tilted his head, studying it. Another neat trap that, to convince an intruder that once the door was safely disarmed, it could be pushed wide open. Or he could be overthinking the problem. With a slight shrug, he performed yet another scan, but found nothing.

  Shrugging, he strengthened his personal shields just in case, then pushed the door open and, after a brief hesitation, stepped inside and drew in a deep, satisfied breath. This was most definitely the room he sought, but it wasn’t just success that made his lungs expand with pleasure. The scent of a serious workroom was a balm to his soul in this technological age. It made him homesick for the world of his birth, though that world no longer existed. And the truth was, it had felt utterly alien and empty once his warriors had been taken from him.

  Looking around, he saw nothing he hadn’t expected. Sotiris might be an evil bastard, but his workroom was virtually the same as Nick’s own. Sure, the specific projects varied, but the devices on hooks and shelves, the herbs and other ingredients, the books lining the shelves—they were mostly the same.

  But enough nostalgia. Time to work. The device itself wasn’t there, of course. Sotiris was probably still off draining vampires to top off its energy, and so had it with him. But the materials used to construct it were there. The wood, which the sorcerer would have cut and shaped himself, lest some stray bit of magic in a long dead genetic line find its way into the material. The remains of tiny ropes of pure gold, smelted and rolled, until Sotiris could fashion them into magical sigils for the box, which were necessary to contain the power once it had been drained from unwitting sources. He understood now why his enemy had thought to use Dragan as his personal power source. The warrior was goddess-blessed, her magic a renewable flow of power, available whenever Dragan needed it. Though no doubt, the goddess hadn’t intended it to function that way. Dragan had been meant to carry her magic until his death in her service, at which time the next unfortunate servant would take over his task, and his magical gift.

  But Dragan hadn’t died. He’d survived a nightmare prison, only to emerge with the goddess’s gift still so potent that even the thin magic of this world hadn’t been enough to stop the flow of her blessing. Nick didn’t know what had become of that goddess’s island, or the next generation’s second son who’d been intended to take up Dragan’s burden. Or for that matter, the goddess herself. He only knew that, after all this time, Dragan retained every bit of his magic, including those damn wings. How the hell had the crazy ass goddess come up with that? Maybe she’d simply liked wings. Who the fuck knew what the gods thought?

  And he was permitting himself to become distracted yet again. If he wasn’t careful, he’d blow himself up and the whole building with him. No, he’d never let it get that far. He could throw up a shield fast enough, but probably not in time to save Dragan and his woman. And that would be intolerable. After all these centuries, his warrior deserved to live. All of them did.

  Breaking out the ensorcelled duffle he’d brought with him, one that nullified the magic of whatever was put into it, he gathered up the leftover pieces of wood and slender gold ropes, along with the few bits of sketched diagrams that gave him clues as to the box’s design. He already knew its purpose, but knowing as many details as possible about its workings would help him destroy it once it was found. Hopefully before Sotiris managed to use it, because that fucker never intended anything good to happen with his magic. The only life that mattered was his own, and his only goal was more power.

  Satisfied after several minutes of study that he’d gotten everything he could relating to the device, he closed the duffle, walked out of the workroom and back down the hall to the great room itself, where he set the bag on the floor. Then he went back and cast a spell of his own. It was as destructive a spell as could be cast within a workroom, nullifying even the smallest bit of magic, while using the room’s own shields to contain its effects to the room itself. Artifacts and devices would become nothing but pretty knick-knacks, spell ingredients would be drained of all magic, useless for anything but cooking one’s favorite meal. Even the residual magic in the spell books lining the shelves would be dissolved, though any ordinary printing or writing would still be there, of course.

  Nick wished he could stay to watch Sotiris’s reaction when he discovered what had been done, but that was an indulgence he couldn’t afford. He also didn’t want to be anywhere near when the damn thing took effect. If he was too close, his personal magic might well be diminished by the destructive spell, at least temporarily, not to mention the items he’d removed from Sotiris’s workroom. If he was careless and destroyed those, this entire mission would have been for nothing.

  With the spell cast and ticking toward execution, he stepped out of the room, then down the hallway, going perfectly still a moment before his cell chimed an incoming message. Striding across the great room as he read Gabriel’s warning, he swore. “Damn it.”

  DRAGAN LEANED against the far wall, watching Maeve work with one eye, while keeping the other on the empty door to the hall and the big room beyond. When her cell phone chimed, he took a long step to the desk and picked it up before she could. Nico wouldn’t have bothered with the phone, and Gabriel wouldn’t have called for anything short of an emergency.

  He read the message and cursed. Sotiris and his vamp bodyguard had just pulled up to the building and would soon be inside.

  Nico appeared in the doorway in the next instant. “I’ll stall the elevator,” he said rapidly. “Can you get her out of here?”

  “Yes. Will you reset the alarm? The longer it takes him to figure we’ve been here, the better.”

  Nico’s gaze went to the open glass door. “Close that after you. I’ll do the rest.”

  Dragan nodded silently, as Nico disappeared down the hall. “Come on, Mae. Time to go.”

  “Just a few minutes. I need to shut this down, so he won’t—”

  “We need to go. Now.” Not waiting, he walked over and pulled her chair back as she struggled forward to turn off the laptop, then leaving it open the way she’d found it, began to straighten the desk.

  “No time, sweet.” All but picking her up, he headed for the balcony beyond the open doors.

  “Wait,” Maeve said urgently. “Where . . . ? Are we going to hide out there?”

  “Something like that.” Ushering her onto the balcony, he pulled the drapes closed behind him. And then, conscious of the tremendous distance to the street below, and mindful of the slender cast iron railing that was the only thing between Maeve and the edge, he placed a strong arm around her and quietly closed the glass door. “Do you trust me?” he asked in a low voice.

  “Absolutely.” Her unquestioned confidence was a stab to his heart, and a balm to his soul.

  His arms tightened around her. “Don’t scream,” he whispered, then leapt to the banister and out into the open air beyond.

  MAEVE DIDN’T SCREAM, but it was a close thing. Thrill vied with fear as they seemed to drop forever, before leveling off into
a smooth glide. She released the death grip she had around his neck. Then, tasting blood which shouldn’t have been there, she cracked her jaw open, aware that she’d bitten the upper slope of his shoulder while trying to muffle her scream.

  “Sorry,” she whispered, not sure he could hear her over the whistle of wind as they flew . . . flew high above the streets of Manhattan. It was dark this high up, and silent, which made her aware that his wings didn’t flap like a bird’s. He wasn’t flying so much as he was gliding, his path dropping gradually, until he reached a much shorter building and . . . Maeve squeezed her eyes shut again as a flat rooftop raced closer by the second. Dragan didn’t seem to be stopping, and at this speed, they’d hit hard. He’d be fine, thank God. She, on the other hand, was a fragile human person who’d shatter into a million pieces. . . . Okay, that was an exaggeration.

  And they should have been there by now.

  A sudden soft jerk pulled them upward and then they really were landing. Not the shattering crash she’d expected, but a gentle lofting motion, as Dragan ran a few steps, then stopped with her safely cradled in his arms.

  “Mae,” he said immediately. “Are you well?”

  She hugged him again, but in definite excitement this time. “I’m great,” she said hoarsely. Then punched him. “A little advance notice next time.”

  He held her as she steadied on her feet, leaning down to whisper, “You loved it.”

  “Hmph. I would have loved it more if you’d warned me.” But she was smiling, and he saw it.

  “Next time,” he grinned.

  “Like I believe you. Where are we?”

  “Not far from the others. We’re to meet them on the east side of the forest.”

  She parsed that description with what she knew of Manhattan, and came up with, “Central Park.” He gave her a questioning glance. “The forest. It’s called Central Park.” She frowned. “And how come I didn’t know about these emergency escape plans? I’m a member of this team, too.”

  He brushed his lips over hers. “No plans, sweet. Telepathy isn’t Nico’s strongest skill, but he communicates well enough with the four of us, and he knows this city well.”

  Of course, he does, Maeve thought cynically. Rich guy, expensive city . . . a match made in heaven. Or hell . . . you know, whichever worked. “We’re on the west side of the park right now,” she commented. “And it’s a big park. Why meet so far away?”

  “It’s far from the enemy.”

  “Ah. It’s also far from us.”

  “Not a problem.” He opened his wings with a rustle of leathery skin.

  “Or we could walk,” she suggested quickly. As jaded as New Yorkers were, even they might notice a giant flying bat . . . man.

  He shrugged. “As you wish. Shall we take the stairs from this roof?”

  “Yeah, but first.” She unslung her small backpack and pulled out one of those ponchos that folded into a tiny ball. They were usually some gaudy neon color, but this one happened to be dark blue. “Put this on. Your shirt’s shredded again from the wings. You’re also bleeding, and—” Her throat was too thick with tears to continue.

  He hugged her gently. “It’s all right, Mae. I’m used to it.”

  “That doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt. Come on, let’s get this on you.” She unfolded the poncho, then helped him pulled the flimsy fabric over his head and down past his waist.

  He bent his head to meet her gaze. “Ready?”

  She nodded and walked over to eye the rusty knob assembly, saying, “That door’s probably locked, or rusted shut.”

  Dragan reached around her and twisted the knob sharply, to the sound of grinding metal. “It’s open.”

  “For an ancient warrior, you’re quite the wise guy.”

  “Wise guy,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “I know that expression. We had them in my world, too.” He pulled the door open. “I, however, am not such a one. I merely observed the truth of the door’s opening.”

  “Sure you did.” She surprised herself then, by laughing. “Come on, before Nico leaves us behind.”

  “That, he would never do,” he said solemnly, and they began the long climb down the fire escape to the street.

  THE WALK WASN’T far by Dragan’s standards. He’d walked farther than this many times to reach the goddess’s battlefields, only to immediately fend off her enemies singlehanded. Most people on this world seemed to use vehicles to get around, although the streets of this Manhattan were crowded with people, as well.

  He and Maeve walked hand-in-hand, passing many other couples doing the same, as well as groups of younger people laughing and talking, barely seeming to pay attention to where they were going. Oddly enough, their innocence made him feel better about this place.

  “There they are,” Maeve said, nodding at their long, black vehicle. She didn’t hurry or point, which was smart. One never knew if the enemy was watching. The car’s back door opened when they were a bare few feet away. “Is that a good sign?” she asked.

  Dragan chuckled. “Yes, and there’s Gabriel,” he said, as the front door opened, as well, and his brother stepped out. They wasted no time once he and Maeve were back in the car. Gabriel pulled them smoothly from the curb, building quickly to a speed that had little to do with the crowded streets around them.

  “Everything good?” Nico asked glancing over his shoulder to meet Dragan’s gaze.

  “Nothing worse than a rusted lock.”

  “What about the computer?” he asked Maeve.

  “I copied the drive, but there was no time to look at anything.”

  “All right. We’re heading straight to the airport. I want to hold off the debrief until we’re back in Florida, so the others can be there.”

  “Should we call?” Maeve ventured. “Let them know everyone’s okay?”

  “I called Hana,” Gabriel said, speaking for the first time since they’d rejoined the group. “She’ll tell the others.”

  She sighed deeply and settled against Dragan’s side. “So the worst part’s done with, I guess.”

  “I wish you were right,” Nico said, sounding more tired than he had since their reunion only two nights ago. “But experience tells me this fight will become far bloodier before it’s over.”

  SOTIRIS HAD SMELLED his enemy the moment he entered the building. Katsaros’s stench was one he’d never forget. He ignored the guard who walked with him to the elevator. The doors were closed, indicating someone else was using the device, which by itself seemed unusual at this hour. He frowned at the guard, who muttered an apology and inserted a key, which should have overridden any other calls. When the doors remained stubbornly shut, he closed his eyes against the desire to lash out in a burst of destruction, and cast his awareness upward. Katsaros was gone, but he’d lingered long enough to stall Sotiris’s arrival. Probably needing the time to make his escape, or that of his warriors. The coward would never have come alone.

  The violation of this home bothered him more than it should. He’d never been attached to any of the places he’d lived. But this one . . . he’d lived here longer than any other in this world, and for the first time, he’d favored one home above the many others he owned. He’d protected it with multiple wards not only on the penthouse floor, but on the building itself. He was furious, but in the end, not shocked that his protections hadn’t been enough. Katsaros was the most formidable power in this world, after him of course, and he knew Sotiris well. If anyone could defeat his wards, it was his old enemy.

  They’d already met three times in this world, all three in just the last few years as Katsaros’s warriors had begun freeing themselves. Now that Dragan, too, had escaped, the bastard had all four of his men back. There was a symmetry to that. Their fourth and final battle in this world would be a replay of the war they’d fought in the world of their
birth. Once again, Katsaros and all four of his precious warriors would stand against him. And once again, they would be defeated. Permanently this time.

  The thought of the hexagon and where it might be at this moment cast a shadow of uncertainty, but he brushed it away, confident that he’d retrieve the damn rock before they met again. If not by force or outright theft, then there were other methods he could use. Blackmail was such an easy weapon when the heart was involved, and he knew exactly what, or whom, Katsaros valued most.

  But first, he must deal with the invasion of his home. Perhaps the many spells protecting his workroom had done their job, and he’d find Katsaros’s dead body waiting for him. It was a soothing fantasy as he waited for the elevator to rise.

  The penthouse was empty when he stepped through the open doors. Neither of those things surprised him. Why bother to lock doors you’ve gone to such trouble to break through? He stood for a moment, breathing in the scents of his home. Any doubts vanished. Katsaros had been here. Who else could it be? A bitter frown twisted his lips, as he detected another familiar scent. That treasonous girl had been here, too. She’d not only stolen from him, but was now helping his bitterest enemy undermine and destroy him. It had to be her who’d identified this place for them. He’d lived here in one identity or another for as long as this building had existed, and in the building that been on this same land before that, and had never been targeted. Not here. Until now. She’d die for that alone.

  The third scent was less familiar, but not unknown. He considered it a moment longer and realized it was the warrior Dragan. He’d encountered the winged freak on the battlefields of their old world, which accounted for its sense of familiarity. But the scent had changed in this world. He frowned a moment, noted the mingling the warrior’s scent with. . . . He barked a laugh. They were fucking. The pale little thing was a far cry from Dragan’s usual fare, but after all those years, a man took what he could. Or maybe he’d seduced her into betraying him.