Sighing, he shook his head and strode to the transporter tech. As he gave the man their destination, Galen entered, his gray cloak around his shoulders. Mayori followed close behind, carrying Drake’s cape and weapons.
“Magician, I’m going with you.”
Drake expected that. “We’ll transport first then you’ll follow. I want to be certain we’re not walking into a mess.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m capable of protecting us.”
“You want to come, you do it my way or stay here. It’s your choice.” He ignored her sigh of frustration and turned to his second in command.
“If she’s going, I’m going, too,” Mayori whispered, handing him his knife hilt first.
He shook his head. “As soon as we’re gone, transport her back to Zoran.” He slipped his knife into his boot then held out his hand for his blaster.
She handed it to him. “You honestly think that will work?”
“I don’t know, but I’m willing to try. One protective female is all I can handle.” He grinned, tucking the blaster into his belt, then whirled his cape around his shoulders. “You ready?”
Galen nodded, drawing away from Jelena, and stepped onto the transporter pad. “Whenever you are.”
Drake turned his gaze onto Jelena, taking one last long look at her silky blonde curls, her beautiful amethyst eyes, her soft dusky lips. His chest tightened.
Stepping on to the pad, he pulled his hood over his head, drew his blaster, then turned and nodded to the tech. “Do it.”
DRAKE CAME to Bardok’s because it was the best on the planet. The liquor was excellent and the food good. The women were friendly, easy on the eyes and clean, and the tavern even cleaner. Hell, even the alley behind the place was spotless.
Seeing that they had only the night sky for company, Drake tucked his blaster into his belt and strode to the tavern’s rear door. He fished his universal key from a deep pocket in his cape, set it over the door’s numeric lock, and activated it. In seconds, the lock clicked and the door swung open.
He glanced inside the dimly lit storeroom, checking that no one stood among all the crates and barrels then gestured for Galen to follow him inside.
“We’re not going to wait for your little Guardian?” Galen whispered, closing the door behind him.
“No. She should be on Zoran by now.” Drake pointed at the staircase leading to Bardok’s office and walked in that direction.
Galen chuckled. “I knew you gave in too easily.”
Drake grinned. Just as his boot touched the first step, his com pulsed against his wrist.
Drek! After flipping back his hood, he fit a tiny receiver in his ear then brought the com to his lips. “Go ahead,” he whispered.
“Drake, she’s gone. She disappeared before I could get her on the transporter.”
“I’ll keep an eye out for her.”
“You expected this, didn’t you?”
“I was hoping like hell I’d be wrong. Durand out.” He tapped off the com then fit the small receiver into its slot.
Galen stared at him expectantly.
“Our little Guardian didn’t go home.”
“You think she’s here?”
“I’d bet my life on it. Come on, let’s go. Morgan and the others will be here soon. I want everything ready.”
Galen nodded and followed him up the stairs. They paused outside the closed office door. Someone moved inside. Drake motioned Galen out of sight and quietly opened the door.
Bardok sat at his desk, his large body folded into an antique leather chair that looked too fragile to hold him. His sandy head was bent over the electronic tablet he scribbled on. Trakian tiles sat in neat stacks, ten high, on the desk in front of him.
The small, thin squares of gold, worth a hundred credits each, were the preferred payment of those who didn’t want to risk leaving a credit trail. Drake had been paid in them many times in the past, more times than he cared to count.
“Looks like you’re having a profitable night.”
Bardok jumped, his hand scattering the tiles across his desk and onto the spotless floor. “Blast! I hate when you do that!” He hefted his large frame to his feet, drawing a squeaky protest from his chair, and bent to retrieve the fallen tiles. “What do you want this time?”
Drake folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the doorframe, repressing the urge to grin as the man stilled and turned his blanched face toward him.
“I wasn’t aware that my patronage was such a burden for you.” His quiet voice sent a tremor through the man’s large body. “I can take my business elsewhere. Or,” he raised his eyebrow, “perhaps it’s just me you find so offensive.”
“No, Magician, I don’t find you or your patronage offensive. I just dislike surprises. I apologize for my petulance.”
Seeing the man wringing his hands, his big body trembling, would be damned funny if a person didn’t know that the man’s greater size wouldn’t be enough to take Drake down. Two of him wouldn’t be enough. Bardok was smart enough to realize that.
“Please, what can I do for you tonight?”
Drake entered the room, striding toward the man until they stood eye to eye. “I need a private table set up immediately. When my party arrives, no one comes up without my approval, not even the serving wenches, and no food or liquor is brought up that you haven’t tested yourself.”
“I’ll see it done.” Bardok nodded, then his eyes widened, his expression turning smug. “All those security measures—the rumor’s true. You not only know him, you’re bringing him here.”
In one swift movement, Drake had Bardok flat on his back across his desk, scattering tiles all over the floor. The man’s eyes bulged, his hands clawing at the fingers around his throat, cutting off his air and the blood-flow to his brain.
“I’ll kill you right here, right now, for even thinking of betraying him.” His deadly whisper frightened the man more than the increased pressure on his throat.
“No,” Bardok coughed. “Never!”
Drake abruptly released him and stepped back, leaving the man coughing, wheezing, sputtering on the desk.
“I’d never betray him, or you.” He held out a placating hand, still trying to catch his breath. “I haven’t forgotten what you’ve done for my brother.”
Drake stared into the man’s eyes long enough to make him extremely nervous, before finally nodding.
Bardok sighed, rubbing his throat, and gestured toward the door. “This way. I’ll show you to the table and see to other arrangements.”
Drake grabbed his shoulder just before he reached the door. “You betray him, and you’ll regret it every last second of your life.” His quiet voice echoed in the silent room. “Your brother will be with him. You might want to remember that, if you decide it’s worth the risk.”
Bardok nodded, not looking back. A tremor ran through his body. “This way, please.” He strode through the doorway and almost walked into Galen. He flinched, recovered enough to nod to Galen, and preceded them down the stairs.
Galen fell in step beside Drake, a huge grin on his face. “It’s amazing to me how such a calm, quiet man can make a guy twice his size shake in his boots.”
“Size isn’t everything.” Drake cuffed his shoulder. “Morgan’s right. You are a scamp.”
Laughing, Galen trotted down the stairs, leaving Drake to bring up the rear. He felt Jelena watching him the moment he stepped into the room. The skin on the back of his neck prickled as he strode up the stairs to their private table.
He braced his hands against the railing, searching for some sign of that pesky blonde sprite, while he watched the crowded taproom below him for Morgan’s arrival. He saw no sign of her.
She must have found some other way to disguise herself from him, since her shielding hadn’t worked. But, it didn’t matter. She’d give herself away. All he had to do was sit back and wait—and he was a very patient man.
Scanning the tavern’s patrons, he saw th
e usual mix of life forms, and others. Races of people who, until Morgan’s rebellion, were enslaved by the Jotnar.
Granted, Drake had done what he could to help, but it was Morgan who’d convinced the people of Bellariss to end their hundred-year seclusion and stand against the Jotnar Alliance.
It was Morgan who’d banded together all thirty worlds that once formed the Sullust Federation before the Jotnar takeover.
It was Morgan who’d been captured, tortured, and finally enslaved by the Jotnar, yet fought through it all to secure these people’s freedom, nearly costing him his life.
Most of the patrons paid Drake no mind, but he recognized more than a few faces of those who did. Several raised their drinks in salute—men who’d found refuge in the Guild settlements he’d hidden on each Jotnar slave world.
One man stared up at him, his body trembling in fear. The moment Drake’s gaze locked on his, he leapt to his feet and ran from the tavern.
Drake chuckled.
“Who was that?”
“Torthalon Sek.” Drake glanced at Galen, slouched in the chair beside him, his booted feet propped on the railing. “His bounty sheet came through yesterday.”
“Ah, yes, the man who broke into the Golorian Royal Palace and stole Princess Talia’s virtue. You going after him?”
Drake shook his head. “I know the princess. Sek didn’t have to steal anything.”
“Wait a minute!” Galen’s feet thumped loudly on the floor. “You know her, or you know her?”
Drake turned his gaze to the crowd below him. He never spoke about the women he’d bedded, and he expected the same from them. If they bragged, they never saw him again.
“Your silence says it all, you dog!” Galen laughed. “That dark and dangerous frak gets them every time. They can’t resist you.”
Yes they can. It had only been a dream, yet the memory of Jelena’s rejection hurt worse than a knife in his gut. He didn’t understand why.
Absently rubbing the ache in his chest, he searched for her, wondering where she’d hidden herself. He still felt her, somewhere near, watching him.
It was better to have an enemy in sight than creeping up behind you, so he watched for her, even though she was no threat to him. Unless you considered distraction a threat.
Drake went deadly still, his fingers tightening around the railing. That was exactly the problem. She had him so worked up, so completely turned inside out, that instead of searching for any possible threat to Morgan, he looked for her! “Damn.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” Maybe that was her plan—to use that sweet little body of hers to knock him off balance, to make him an easy target for anyone with a vendetta against him or the desire to take over the Guild.
Hell, there were a few men in this room who’d love to take a crack at him, knowing that if they succeeded in killing him, all his power and wealth went to them. The same way it had gone to him when he’d killed Mandek and gained control of Trakis III.
Damn it, he wouldn’t make it easy for them, or her.
Forcing her from his thoughts, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly. The calm, detached apathy that was so much a part of him returned. And that’s when he found her.
His gaze locked on the tall Pochasi serving wench at the bar, taking in her long, feathery blue hair, her downy skin, the voluptuous body beneath a clinging silk shift. Her hooked, beak-like nose added to her exotic beauty, not detracted from it. A good disguise.
He’d barely glanced at her, despite her long, appraising stare. Not because he didn’t find her attractive; Pochasi were very affectionate, very passionate creatures. Unfortunately, they had the tendency to peck. One threat to his manhood was quite enough to deter him from taking another Pochasi lover.
Now, he met her bold stare with one of his own, and because he was calm, in control again, he saw right through her elaborate illusion. In the second before he gave in to the urge to blink, he saw Jelena in her true form. Gods, she was good. But he was better. He wouldn’t fall for one of her tricks again.
Smiling, he sent her a little two-fingered salute.
She obviously didn’t realize that he saw through her disguise, because she very slowly, very thoroughly looked him over, her velvety pink tongue stroking her lips.
His body tightened in response, but he ignored it, refusing to let her distract him again. Not here, not right now. But later, he just might show her a few things he bet she didn’t know she could do with that tongue.
Bardok barked at her, his palm slapping the bar, dragging her gaze away from him. Just as well, because the activity at the door drew his gaze. “Morgan’s here.”
“Where?”
Drake didn’t need to answer. Galen couldn’t miss Morgan in the center of the throng, standing nearly a head taller than most of the tavern’s patrons. He’d dressed plainly and had covered his head with the hood of his brown cape, likely hoping for anonymity. He still looked regal as hell, especially with Gar, Alrik, and Boyan forming a protective triangle around him.
He jerked his gaze toward a swift movement on his right—Bardok pushing his way through the crowd to reach Morgan. Drek! “You lead Morgan and the others here. I’m going to intercept that idiot before he causes a scene.”
He took the stairs four at a time and, before Morgan and company even knew the man was coming, he had Bardok by the scruff of the neck and jerked him back to the bar—next to Jelena.
“You trying to get him killed?”
The man blanched at Drake’s deadly quiet tone. “N-n-no. I meant no harm. I didn’t think—”
“No, you didn’t, but you’d better start thinking, and you’d better do it very carefully. The wrong decision might be your last.” Turning his back on the man’s stammering apology, he headed for the stairs, ignoring Jelena’s glare and whispered “bully” as he passed her. When he reached the platform, far too many grinning faces greeted him.
Laughter danced in Morgan’s eyes as he rose from his chair and clasped Drake’s forearm.
“What’s that scamp been telling you?”
“That you enjoy making men twice your size quiver in fear.”
Raising his eyebrow, Drake looked at Galen, who sat at the six-sided table flanked by his sister’s husband Boyan, and Ariana’s brother Alrik. The three of them grinned like idiots. “You meant that you enjoy watching me make them quiver in fear, right?”
Galen’s grin got wider. “Isn’t that what I said?”
Drake chuckled, shaking his head. “You see what I have to put up with?”
Morgan laughed and gripped Drake’s shoulder. “Gods, it’s good to see you.”
“It’s only been a few… “
“Months. It’s been months.”
Drek, he’d been about to say hours. How would he have explained that? His little Nar’gadesh had drawn a circle in the air, and poof! there he was? Drake shrugged. “I’ve been busy.”
Morgan nodded, taking his seat. “So I’ve heard.”
Drake slid into the empty chair beside him, with his back to the side wall, and propped his booted foot on the rail. From this position, he saw the entire taproom and the stairs leading to their platform. He reached for the intercom. “Anyone want anything?”
“My brother brews a damn fine ale,” a quiet voice said.
Drake’s hand froze as he glanced across the table at Gar. His whole body tensed, anticipating a fight.
No one’s loyalty was eternal, not even Gar’s. And Drake hadn’t done all that much for the man, regardless of what Bardok thought. Gar was a Jotnar guard his people had captured. By the time Drake finished with him, Gar was Guild, and he had another man on the inside.
An explanation rose to the tip of his tongue. He clenched his jaw, mentally bashing himself for even considering it. He didn’t explain himself to anyone—not even to the man whose brother he just roughed up.
The silence around the table was deafening.
Alrik slapped the table. “C
ome on guys! I thought we were going to play cards not sit here and moon at each other.”
The group erupted in uneasy laughter, all except for Drake and Gar. Drake watched him, and waited.
Gar sighed, shaking his head, and leaned back in his chair. “I know you don’t trust anyone where Morgan’s safety is concerned.”
I don’t trust anyone. Period.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. He trusted Morgan. From everyone else, he expected betrayal—maybe not now, but eventually—and that’s why he refused to let anyone get too close to him.
“As long as he doesn’t do anything stupid, he has nothing to fear.” Drake traced a pattern on the tabletop. “But I intend to remind him, frequently, what bad judgment will cost him.”
“Fair enough.” Gar nodded and turned his gaze on Alrik. “Well, what are you waiting on? Deal the cards.”
Alrik snorted. “This guy forgets I’m not a humble slave under his command anymore.”
Morgan laughed at his brother-in-law. “You were never humble.”
“That’s true.” Alrik grinned, shuffling the cards.
Drake ordered their drinks then leaned back in his chair, watching Alrik’s nimble fingers as he dealt the cards. The man was too brave for his own good. Especially when he’d been a slave.
A few years ago, Drake had gone to Cantara to check in with his base contacts and found Alrik lying in his bed—crippled. He’d been beaten, tortured, and afterwards maimed, because the Jotnar had thought he had information about how the slaves were escaping the compound. Drake had wanted to take him out of there, but Alrik insisted that he could do the Guild more good by remaining in the slave yard. He was right. If not for him, Gar, and Ariana, Morgan would have died.
Thank the gods for Bellarissian medicine. With surgery and therapy, Alrik had two good legs again.
Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Drake scanned the taproom. Bardok walked with Jelena, her arms weighted with a tray of frothy mugs. His pulse quickened at the sight of her, even in this form. They stopped at the bottom of the staircase. Bardok waited for Drake’s nod before sending her up.
She reached the top, her gaze darting from him to Gar, and back. No way she heard what just went on here, not from the bar.
Real Magic Page 5
