The Stone Warriors: Damian

by D. B. Reynolds

  As Damian had told Cassandra, his talents didn’t include sensing such magic, but one of the artifacts in that room had called to him so strongly that Sotiris’s man had managed to sneak up on him and put a gun to his neck. The item would mean nothing to Cassandra, perhaps not even register to her considerably more acute magical senses. But to Damian . . . and to Nico . . . it was a treasure indeed, and so intensely personal that he hadn’t even mentioned it to Cassandra. He’d simply concealed it within the spell of his scabbard, and planned to see it safely delivered or die trying.

  From the other side of the room came a small noise of distress, and he spun around to find Cassandra lowering herself slowly onto a wooden chair, her face buried in her hands. With every passing moment they’d spent in this cursed room, she’d gotten steadily paler and more distressed. He was still angry at her, still struggling to understand why she’d been so determined to push him away this morning. Hell, he’d been legendary for his refusal to commit to one woman, and even he was willing to pursue what they had together. What was she so afraid of?

  Despite all of that, however, his feelings hadn’t changed. He was ready to pick her up bodily and haul her out of this place that was making her so sick. Hell, he wanted her out of the house entirely.

  He walked over and crouched at her side, taking her hands in his. They were so cold. “We’re done here,” he said, and she nodded wearily. “Come on.” He helped her up and ushered her out into the relative sanctuary of the hallway. “Here.” He dragged a chair from a nearby room. “Sit down, and I’ll do the rest.” That she didn’t protest told him how much being in there had worn on her. She’d only been in the hallway a few minutes, and already her color was returning.

  “How do we lock it?” he asked as he carried the computer tower out into the hallway, and set it on a nearby table. At his question, she started to stand, but he waved her down. “Just tell me, Cassandra. I’m sure even I can manage to close a door.”

  “Don’t close it yet,” she said, surprising him.

  “It’s making you sick,” he said flatly.

  “I’m okay out here. Besides, I have a plan for our prisoner. He knows more than he’s telling.”

  Damian regarded her quizzically. He forgot sometimes that she was more than just an expert in all things magical. She was a fighter, a warrior even. And always thinking two steps ahead to get the job done.

  “You want to shove him in there and leave him to die?” he guessed. “I’m good with that.”

  When she met his curious gaze, there was a gleam in her eye that was positively predatory. “Maybe we’ll leave him there afterward,” she agreed. “But first we need answers—” She held up a hand when he opened his mouth to protest that she was too exhausted. “I’m okay, Damian. And he’s our best lead. Will you get him out here in the hall for me? Please?”

  Damian shrugged. He knew better than to think he could talk her out of it, whatever the plan was. He suspected he had far more experience than she did when it came to extracting information from unwilling sources, but he’d go along with her for now.

  Their prisoner swung his head around as soon as Damian opened the kitchen door, his eyes wide above a vomit-soaked gag. Oh, yeah. He should have thought about that. They were probably lucky the man hadn’t choked on his own vomit and died. Not that his death would be a great loss to the world, but then Cassandra wouldn’t have been able to ask her questions.

  He walked over and ripped the man’s gag off, then picked him up by his bound hands and started dragging him toward the door, while the man screamed profanities.

  “Shut the fuck up, monkey boy. Or I’ll gag you again, and this time I’ll leave you here for the maggots.”

  That shut him up, except for an occasional pathetic whimper. Monkey boy, indeed.

  Damian drew a carefully concealed breath of the slightly fresher air as soon as they were back in the hallway. Cassandra was on her feet, her attention shifting from the device she held in her hand to their prisoner, and then back again. She was stroking the artifact in a focused, almost sensuous, way that made him frown. Was it magical? And had she gone back into the treasure room for it? Why would she do that, when it had obviously made her sick? He glanced down at the prisoner and saw him staring, his gaze fixed on the movement of Cassandra’s hands over the device, in a way that Damian found deeply troubling. He took a step forward, prepared to knock the damn thing out of her hands, when she looked up and gave him a quick wink.

  He breathed a long sigh of relief. Shit. He’d been more than half-convinced that she’d been overtaken by some evil piece of magic from the collection. A soft whimper from their prisoner had him looking down at the man. Apparently, their prisoner had also been taken in by whatever game Cassandra was playing.

  “What’s your name?” she asked suddenly.

  The prisoner jumped at the sound of her voice, and struggled to inch closer to Damian, until Cassandra slanted an impatient glance his way, and he shouted in his eagerness to comply. “Graham Lockhart.”

  “Tell me . . . Graham,” she crooned. “Who’s the dead guy?”

  Damian could tell the man didn’t want to answer, but he was too afraid of Cassandra and whatever she had in her hand to resist. “Eli,” he mumbled.

  “And who was Eli?” she coaxed in an almost singsong voice.

  “An asshole,” Graham hissed, then jerked a fearful look at her. “My brother,” he amended.

  “You killed your own brother?” Damian demanded in disbelief. It was one thing to hate your brother. Gods knew Nico hated his, and for good reason. But it was another matter entirely to murder your own blood.

  “Why not?” Graham snarled. “He treated me like shit all our lives, told me I was stupid, just because he had magic and I didn’t. All of them were like that, thinking they were so much better than the rest of us.”

  “My, my,” Cassandra interrupted, laughing breathily. “So much hatred. Tell me what happened.”

  Damian shivered. He knew she was playing a part, but in that moment, she sounded almost greedy for the details, as if the kind of hatred that could drive a man to kill his own brother was the most delectable treat she could imagine.

  “They left us behind,” the man explained sullenly. “Eli was the trusted one. He was supposed to secure the house and then catch up to the others. They took the Talisman, but all the rest of this junk”—he jerked his head in the direction of the open door—“they didn’t have room for it, or maybe they just didn’t feel like dragging it along with them. I didn’t ask, and nobody would have explained it to me if I had. I was the lowest of the low. No magic, no skills. Just a strong back and a pathetic willingness to do whatever they asked.”

  “You do seem pathetic,” she agreed silkily.

  Graham flushed and for a moment, his hatred showed through. But then he lowered his gaze and continued. “I wanted inside that room. It was a waste to leave all of those valuable things behind. That’s what I told Eli. What would it hurt if I lifted a few of them? I’ve earned that and more over the years, but no one was ever going to pay up. Besides, they didn’t remember even half of what they’d shoved in there. They’d never miss a pretty piece or two, right? But Eli wanted no part of it. He came right out and said that my empty human soul would suck the magic right out of whatever I touched. Arrogant bastard,” he snarled.

  “So you killed him.”

  “I killed him,” Graham agreed. “Best night of my life. I was getting ready to grab a few things and run, until you two came along and fucked it up.”

  Cassandra smiled sweetly. “That was a wonderful story, Graham. And now you’re going to tell me everything you know about where your friends have gone.”

  He grunted. “They’re not my friends. And they don’t tell me anything.”

  “Graham, Graham,” she chided. “A sneaky fellow like you m
ust have listened to things he wasn’t supposed to. And you’re going to tell me all about it.”

  “Why would I do that? You’re just going to kill me anyway.”

  “True,” she agreed cheerfully, but then her voice darkened and she turned a threatening gaze on him. “But you see, Graham, there’s death, and then there’s death. Do you know what this device does?” She offered the pretty artifact she’d been rolling back and forth in her hands.

  He stared at the bauble sitting in the center of her palm, and so did Damian. It was globe-shaped, made of gold with black marks of inscription covering its surface, in a language Damian didn’t recognize. Graham shook his head wordlessly.

  “When a person is killed by violence, his spirit often lingers near his body, too confused to move on. This device”—she hefted it slightly—“captures stray spirits. It doesn’t even have to be activated. It’s always searching, always hungry.”

  The prisoner stared at it in growing horror. “Are you saying you’ve got Eli in there?”

  Cassandra gave him a lazy look. “I do, and you know what else?”

  He shook his head silently.

  “I’m going to put you in there with him. I won’t even kill you first. I’m still vexed with you for trying to hurt my Damian,” she added almost sulkily. “So I’m going to steal your soul and trap you inside. You and Eli, together for eternity. Except . . . you’ll still be alive. Won’t that be fun?”

  Graham was shaking his head, his whole body trembling in terror. “Please,” he whispered. “Please don’t. I’ll tell you anything, everything. Whatever I know.”

  She smiled delightedly. “Will you? That’d be great!”

  Fuck. She sounded like some crazy axe murderess or something, and Damian wondered what it meant that she could switch personalities so easily. Maybe there were depths to Cassandra that he’d yet to discover. He eyed her appreciatively, remembering, in great detail, all of her depths he’d already explored. Somehow she intrigued him even more now that he knew this side of her.

  “They’re going north to Chicago,” Graham said, the words gushing forth in his eagerness. “I don’t know the target. I swear!” he added, all but screaming when Cassandra gave him a skeptical look. “But I know it’s big. They talked about planes falling from the sky.”

  She froze for a moment at that piece of news, and Damian knew it was important. How could it not be? Planes falling from the sky? What the hell did that damn Talisman do, anyway?

  “When did they leave?” he asked the man, since Cassandra seemed to be too deep in thought to follow up.

  “I told you. Less than an hour before you got here. You just missed them.”

  “And when’s the attack?”

  “Tomorrow, in the afternoon, when they said all the TV news would be watching.”

  Damian called up the map he’d memorized in his head, but nothing stood out for him. He didn’t know this area, or even this world, well enough to spot its weaknesses. That wasn’t true of Cassandra, though. She was staring at the man with an awareness that very nearly broke through the creepy character she’d donned. But she recovered quickly enough.

  “Thank you, Graham,” she said silkily, then lifted her gaze to Damian. “Damian, darling?”

  Darling? He repeated silently to himself, and then, out loud, said cautiously. “Cassandra?”

  “Would you dispose of this trash for me?”

  “Certainly,” he said and reached over his shoulder, drawing his sword in a single, practiced move.

  “Wait!” Graham shouted. “You promised—”

  “I promised nothing,” she snapped, all traces of the hypnotic sorceress gone. “You killed your own brother, and you did it out of jealousy. That’s not even original, and it’s not why you’re going to die. You’re dying because I won’t gamble thousands of lives on your cowardice, on the chance that the moment we leave, you’ll call your cronies and warn them we’re coming.”

  “What about Eli?” he whispered, staring at the globe in her hand. “Don’t, please.”

  “Oh, this?” she asked, tossing it up in the air and catching it. “This is nothing. The ancient equivalent of a pet rock. It looks mysterious as shit, and if you touch it, you’ll get a little zap, like an electrostatic shock. But that’s it.”

  He sobbed out a breath. “But you said—”

  “Well, obviously, I lied, Graham. I think your brother must have been right about you being stupid.”

  His head shot up, pure hatred in his eyes. “Bitch.”

  “Probably,” she said, with a sadness that was far too genuine. And that was enough for Damian. Grabbing the man by his hair, he dragged him into the kitchen.

  “Please, don’t,” Graham begged.

  “May your gods be merciful,” Damian muttered.

  “I won’t tell anyone. You can—”

  He sliced the man’s throat with a single, clean, and merciful stroke, shoving the body aside before the blood could spray all over him. He gave his blade a cleansing flick, and slipped it back into the scabbard, then took a quick look around the kitchen with its two dead bodies and cooling pools of blood. He could almost pity whoever ended up finding this disaster.

  Cassandra was waiting for him in the hallway, looking as exhausted as he’d ever seen her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said immediately.

  He gave her a puzzled look.

  “I should have killed him myself. It wasn’t fair to ask—”

  “Cassandra,” he said, interrupting her. “I thought we were partners?”

  She frowned. “We are, but what—”

  “That means we each do those things we do well. His death meant nothing to me. Can you say the same?”

  She stared at him a long moment, then shook her head. “I’ve killed. You know I have.”

  He nodded and waited.

  “Thank you,” she said simply.

  Unable to stop himself, he walked over and stroked her pale cheek. Her eyes closed as she leaned in to the touch, and a single tear escaped. Damian cupped her chin and lowered his head to capture the salty drop with a touch of his tongue, his mouth lingering over her soft skin, skimming down along her jaw to brush his lips over hers in a quick kiss. But when her lips opened beneath his, he couldn’t resist. He deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue between her teeth, exploring her warm mouth, feeling a surge of satisfaction at her soft moan, at the responding stroke of her tongue against his. But it wasn’t the time or place. And this was Cassandra. Too much had happened between them for any of this to be easy.

  He ended the kiss gently, reluctantly, going back for more before finally breaking away with a final touch of lips that was like the quick kiss he’d intended all along. She licked her lips, as if savoring his taste, and he nearly groaned.

  “Cassandra,” he murmured, his voice deep with a lust he tried to conceal.

  She opened her eyes and looked at him. And there it was. All of the heat and desire he was feeling mirrored back at him. She blushed and looked away. “We should get out of here. We’ll aim for Chicago, and hope I figure out something more specific before we get there.”

  The corner of his mouth lifted in a grin. “Can I drive?”

  Her answering smile was weak, but it was there. “I’m driving.”

  DAMIAN SAT IN the passenger seat of Cassandra’s SUV, the seat pushed all the way back to accommodate his long legs. It was a big vehicle, but tonight it felt too small, a sensation that had nothing to do with his size or hers. It was emotion that was filling every inch of space, unspoken feelings, frustrated desire. He wasn’t a particularly intuitive man, but he’d seen the hunger in her eyes after he’d kissed her. Hell, he’d seen that same hunger before, when he was buried inside her, with her pussy creaming all over him. But that was just sex, chemistry. And he�
�d never doubted the chemistry between him and Cassandra. If that’s all there had been, it wouldn’t have mattered what insults they threw at each other in the heat of an argument. If anything, anger would have made the sex burn even hotter.

  But there was more between them than that. He’d seen proof of that tonight, too. There’d been torment in her eyes when he’d told her to shoot Graham while the man still had him at gunpoint, when she’d believed he was about to die no matter what she did.

  He could have warned her that the idiot would never succeed in getting the fatal shot off. But then, maybe he was the idiot for getting caught at all. He was only grateful there’d been no witnesses, or he’d never have lived it down. Cassandra knew, of course, but he trusted her to keep his secret. And wasn’t that what it came down to? Trust?

  Which reminded him . . . he’d have to tell her about the item he’d taken from the treasure room, because he’d be meeting Nico to turn it over to him, and Cassandra wouldn’t forgive him if he snuck away to meet Nico on his own. There was already so much between them, keeping them apart. A secret like that might sound the death knell to any future for the two of them. Assuming they had one left at all.

  He sighed and stretched out as best he could.

  “Would you rather sit in the back? I don’t mind,” Cassandra said, concern for him evident in her voice, though why, he didn’t know. If anyone had been traumatized by the night’s events, it was her, not him.

  “I’d rather stay up here.” With you, he added mentally, then leaned forward to stare through the windshield. It had rained earlier, but the sky had cleared, leaving a pitch-black night. “How can you drive in this? I can’t see a thing, and my eyesight is extraordinary.”

  That made her smile. “Of course it is,” she murmured. “I’m used to driving at night,” she told him, then glanced at the exterior temperature read-out with a frown. “This could be bad, though. Can you bring up the weather report on the radio?” She rattled off three numbers. He fiddled with the controls until he found the right button, then adjusted it until the numbers on the display matched the ones she’d given him. The sound was scratchy, the signal distorted, but he caught a few words. Multi-car pileup, black ice, and several closed roads. Next to him, Cassandra cursed.