The Stone Warriors: Dragan

by D. B. Reynolds

  Seeing no immediate danger, he gave himself a moment to recover, time for blood to flow hot in his veins once more, to warm muscles and ease the pain. But only that. One moment, no more.

  He rose to his feet slowly, testing his balance, gratified when muscle and sinew responded as it should, his body still that of the goddess- blessed warrior he’d been born. Goddess-blessed, he thought cynically. Most of his own people would have said monstrous, despite all he’d done for them. It was their fear, their hatred, which had driven him to Nicodemus, and ultimately to this tormented existence. He shook his head, small bits of rock and dust flying from his long hair to patter on the stone floor. None of this was Nico’s fault. It was Sotiris who’d crafted the curse, Sotiris who’d seduced someone into betraying all of them in a way that made them vulnerable to his curse. Without such a betrayal, Sotiris would never have succeeded in breaking through Nico’s protections as they went into battle.

  Unfortunately, the traitor was, in all likelihood, long dead and beyond retribution. Sotiris, on the other hand, was here, in this time and space and within his grasp.

  But not yet. Dragan knew his body. Strong as it remained, he needed more time to restore both body and mind, and to learn of the world outside this room. Time to plan. And if the fates granted him the boon he was so obviously owed, then there would also be time to discover Nico’s fate, and that of his three warrior brothers who’d stood with him on that fateful battlefield.

  A heavy piece of his stone prison crashed to the marble floor as he stepped down from the low pedestal. He ignored it, his gaze focused on the plain wooden door through which the lovely woman came and went on her visits to him. She could have no idea what she’d done for him. That she’d been the one to finally, finally, break the endless spell of his captivity. It was her fingers on his wing, her insistence that he was the one she felt safe with, while Sotiris was the monster. He knew the words of his curse, knew the damn thing had been crafted to make his freedom very nearly impossible. Sotiris had made sure of it. So, while the woman had come to him almost daily, chatting as if with an old friend, he’d held out no hope that she’d be the one to deliver his freedom, the one to meet the curse’s very precise demands.

  Maeve, he thought. A fitting name for such a lovely woman, with her pale skin and dark red hair that tumbled down her back in the style of maidens who’d dwelled in the villages and farms of his father’s lands. They’d cast covetous eyes on him back then, but for all the wrong reasons. They’d cared nothing for him personally. He’d been a trophy, a stud whose services had been highly prized, but only as a bragging piece. Every lover he’d ever claimed back then had worn a charm crafted by the local hedge witches, spells designed to ensure his seed never took root in their wombs. They’d wanted to fuck him, but never to mate or marry. One didn’t create a family with a monster, even if it had been the goddess herself who’d made him that way.

  But Maeve had always spoken to him with kindness and compasssion. Sitting fearlessly in the shelter of his taloned wing, she’d conversed as if he could hear and respond, though she couldn’t have known his true predicament. Couldn’t have known a living man was trapped in the stone. She still didn’t know, for all that she’d been the one to release him, however inadvertently.

  He strode for the small wooden door she always used, instinct telling him he had to escape this house at once, before Sotiris sensed the collapse of his ancient curse and returned to capture him with a fresh spell. One with no escape this time.

  MAEVE MOVED QUIETLY down the narrow servants’ stairs to the statuary on the first floor. If one wanted to sneak about, this hidden- away staircase was the way to go. She’d found nothing amiss so far, though she’d stopped to listen at every turn of the stairs. She hadn’t taken the time to search the third floor, confident that the crashing sound had come from below. On the second floor, she paused long enough to open the door for a few minutes. Not knowing what she was waiting for—breathing or a stray footstep, maybe—she was certain there’d be some evidence if anyone was there. In her head, she kept playing back the crash she’d heard, convinced it had come from the statuary room, with its marble floor.

  Worried that one of the smaller statues might have toppled over somehow, she rounded the final set of stairs and listened at the closed door to the statuary. As if that was going to do any good—statues didn’t move on their own. Hearing nothing—of course—she reached for the door knob . . . and fell back with an undignified squeak when someone, or something, pulled it open from the other side.

  DRAGAN REACHED out instinctively, trying to catch Maeve before she fell and hurt herself. She batted away his hand, staring at it in disbelief for a moment before she tried to stand, only to fall back against the hard wooden stair with a gasped breath. “Ow,” she said, then glared at him as if it was all his fault.

  Her glare didn’t last more than an instant, however, as her eyes widened and she scrambled backwards up the stairs, reaching for the weapon—the gun—she’d dropped when she’d fallen. “Who the hell—?” She shot a glance around behind him, and he knew the moment she saw the pile of dust and broken stone that had been his prison. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, her stare returning to him in recognition. Tightening the grip on her gun, she jumped to her feet and ran up the stairs. “Oh, my God!”

  “Maeve,” he said, using the magic in his blood to gentle his voice to a seductive call. He had enough magic left for that, at least, though the usual heat of it had been dulled by his long captivity.

  She stopped and turned, moving slowly, but gracefully, as if not completely reluctant to face him. Her heart was thudding, but still she studied him carefully, staring with intelligent eyes that were filled more with curiosity than fear. “It’s really you?” she whispered. “But how . . .?”

  “It’s a long story,” he replied quietly, still wary of spooking her. “Perhaps we could sit somewhere more suitable and . . . “

  “Of course. Forgive me,” she said immediately, then scowled. “Wait a minute. I don’t even know who the hell you really are. I should—”

  “You know me.”

  “No, I don’t,” she insisted. “Because what I’m thinking is impossible.”

  He smiled. “You live in this house filled with magic, yet you speak of the impossible?”

  Her gaze caught on his upturned lips, before her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What do you know about this house? Is that why you’re here? To burgle?”

  “Burgle?” he repeated, trying to make sense of the word.

  “Steal, thieve, the usual.”

  Dragan knew he should be insulted at the very suggestion, but he was more amused than anything else. “I know what’s in this house because it sings to my blood. And because I know the filthy bastard who lives here. Not including your lovely self, of course.”

  “Oh, of course,” she said, pretending an ease that her eyes gave lie to, her fingers shaking almost imperceptibly as she pushed a stray bit of hair behind her ear. She scanned his form, taking in the tattered clothing, and the sword he carried in one hand, held down to his side so as not to threaten her. She stared at the blade a heartbeat longer, before her attention whipped back to his face. “It is you,” she whispered, then slumped back to sit on the stairs again, one hand rubbing her face. “I must be dreaming. That’s it, I’m asleep. Or maybe I hit my head, fell on my ass. Or my head. Whatever.”

  Dragan laughed, charmed at her utter lack of pretense. “If I promise to explain, can we please sit somewhere else? I’ve been standing a very long time.”

  She threw up her hands. “Sure, why not? Embrace the delusion. Come on. I’ll make you a cup of tea. Like Alice in Wonderland, but with less dirt.”

  He watched her go, enjoying the sight of her hips swaying up the stairs, which was a very different view than any he’d had during her daily visits, he thought, then immediately cast his gaz
e downward. She was far too young for him, no more than her mid-twenties, which he only knew because she’d once spoken of birthday gifts from her family. It didn’t matter that he’d been only a few years older than that before his imprisonment, or that he’d spent the last thousand or more years frozen in time. His worldly experience was vastly different from anything she could have known.

  He tightened his jaw and followed her, taking the stairs two at a time.

  MAEVE KEPT GLANCING back as they climbed, trying to convince herself that this was actually happening, that it wasn’t just a romantic dream about her warrior. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to prove he was real. She hadn’t found the courage yet, but even so, his existence was difficult to deny. There was a woodsy scent about him, not at all what she might have expected from a man who . . . who what? Who’d been a fucking statue less than an hour ago? She shot another quick look over her shoulder. His footsteps on the wooden stairs were light for such a big man—and good God, he was big. If she’d been asked before—she stumbled over the thought, before what?—she’d have said the size of the winged statue was an exaggeration for dramatic purposes. But the man behind her, with his weary gaze and gorgeous smile, was no exaggeration. She squeezed her eyes shut, gripping the banister to avoid tripping on stairs she’d climbed more times than she could count.

  What had she been thinking, offering him a cup of tea? She should have raced up the stairs and dialed 911, not offered to feed him. She’d clearly been reading too many books, and all of them the wrong kind. Warriors with big swords did not appear out of nowhere, just because a statue fell over. She frowned, thinking hard. It had to be coincidence that he looked like her winged warrior. Stop that, she ordered herself. He was not her anything.

  “What have you decided?” he asked, his voice still carrying that almost musical cadence that had convinced her he was safe.

  “How’d you know my name?” she demanded, flashing back to the first thing he’d said to her.

  He smiled. Dear God, this had to be a dream. They didn’t make real men with smiles like that.

  “Of course I know your name. You told me. Besides, I’ve heard that bastard Sotiris yell for you often enough.” He spoke gently, the way you would to a skittish horse. Is that how he saw her? Who cared? He wasn’t real anyway.

  “How do you know Mr. Sotiris?” She might as well continue the make-believe conversation. Maybe she’d figure out where her delusions came from.

  “Because he’s the one who stuck me in that statue.”

  She hit the top of the stairs and turned to face him, their faces nearly even since he stood two steps below her. She blinked. “You’re saying . . .” She shook her head, then forged onward. “You were . . . a statue? My statue?”

  His smile widened. “You often ate your midday meal with me. I looked forward to your visits, to hearing you talk. It was far better than the bloviations of that craven sorcerer.”

  Anyone could know that, she told herself. At least anyone who was lurking about the statuary room. The cleaning crew only came in once a month, but they could easily have seen her sitting downstairs, maybe even overheard her talking to him. Wait. Did he say . . . ?

  “Sorcerer?” she rasped on a throat so dry, she was surprised the word made any sound.

  It was his turn to blink in surprise. “Of course. Granted, the magic is thin in this world, but Sotiris seems as strong as ever, despite his evil bent.”

  “Magic,” she repeated, then spun around to do what she should have done in the first place—get the fuck away from him, then call for help.

  Strong arms came around her, pulling her against a hard, warm chest, surrounding her with that surprisingly fresh scent. “Go easy, sweet Maeve. I mean you no harm.”

  It took her a minute to catch her breath, her lungs having stopped working in the short time she’d spent with her back pressed against his chest. When she did speak, she was more angry than frightened. “Let go of me!” She twisted viciously, so surprised when he released her, that she would have stumbled if not for his bracing hand on her arm. She shook him off. “If it’s true that you mean no harm,” she said, sucking in a breath, “then give me your sword.”

  He shook his head, that easy smile still in place. “I cannot do that, my beauty. A warrior is never parted from his blade.”

  “Maybe you’re afraid I’ll use it against you.”

  He didn’t laugh at her ridiculous threat . . . probably because he didn’t know how ridiculous it was. She might admire pretty blades, but she’d never used one. He did, however, lean close enough to whisper, “I could have you helpless with my blade at your throat before you drew your next breath.”

  Maeve froze. She believed him.

  But then he straightened and said, “That I haven’t is proof of my good intentions, is it not?”

  “No, it is not,” she snapped, then turned her back and opened a door directly onto the kitchen. She didn’t trust his so-called good intentions, but she did believe he meant her no immediate harm. Maybe he’d steal her car and go, leaving her to explain to Mr. Sotiris about the broken statue. Though her employer could hardly blame her. It’s not like she could have pushed such a huge piece over on her own, for God’s sake.

  The warrior followed so silently that she glanced back as she crossed the kitchen, wanting to be certain he hadn’t wandered. Or maybe to hope that he had. She’d like him to wander far away and never come back. She frowned. Except that she didn’t. Not truly. The thing of it was . . . she wanted to believe in magic, wanted to believe her warrior had come to life, like in a great fantasy story. Moreover, she did believe that some of Mr. Sotiris’s “curiosities” had something strange about them. So why not magic? She’d never touched any of the ones in the Wonder Room—that was her word for the room, not his, and she only thought of it that way because it reminded her of the so-called “wonder cabinets” from sixteenth and seventeenth century Europe. Some of Sotiris’s curiosities seemed quite ordinary, some just unusual. One that stood out in that category was . . . a rock. She knew it had to be more than that, because it was surrounded with extraordinary security. First, it was displayed in a purple velvet box that had clearly been designed for it, since it nestled into the velvet with perfect symmetry. The box, open for display, was locked inside a glass and wood case, and then surrounded by a second glass dome with no visible seams. It had a sophisticated security device right above it, with an independent laser alarm system, and 24/7 visual monitoring. Maeve was a computer nerd, not a security specialist, but she’d done some searching online and had found a system that was similar but not identical to this one. No prices had been listed, which usually meant if you had to ask, you couldn’t afford it. Maeve had been curious enough to study the display from a safe distance, not wanting to set off any alarm bells. She’d seen it close enough to know there were no inscriptions or symbols, no evidence of artificial polish or shine. And while the shape was roughly hexagonal, it was far from perfect. She’d originally thought it might be a moon rock—one of those pieces smuggled back to Earth and sold on the black market. But the longer she’d worked there, and the more she discovered about Sotiris, she’d known it had to be something more. She just didn’t know what.

  Besides, the rock wasn’t the only or even the most interesting treasure. Not for her, anyway. The rest of the room was filled with exquisitely crafted antiquities, many of which she knew would have sold for millions at auction. She hadn’t dared touch those either, and not only because Sotiris had ordered her not to. They were all too rare and beautiful to risk even the tiniest damage, like that from the oil of a careless hand.

  But then, the piece that had always intrigued her the most, the only one she’d touched and comforted and talked to like a friend despite Sotiris’s prohibitions, had been her warrior. And now? Now there was this handsome, charming, and oh-so-sincere man, who looked just like her
warrior. And she was making him a cup of tea.

  She sighed and lifted the kettle to be sure there was water, then set it to boil on the stovetop. Opening a cupboard to the left, she pulled down two heavy mugs. He didn’t seem like a dainty teacup kind of man. Besides, why the hell would she waste fine china on some crazy intruder? She dismissed that thought as soon as she had it. She didn’t honestly believe that’s what was happening here. He was wearing the same clothes, carrying the same sword as her warrior. No intruder could have made that happen. And as far as she knew, no one other than her, Mr. Sotiris, or the cleaning staff ever entered the statuary room.

  She slid her gaze sideways to find him standing in front of the kitchen’s big bay window, eyes closed and face lifted to the warm afternoon sunlight streaming through the glass. His expression was one of pleasure, but there was agony, too. Damn. It was as if he’d missed the sunlight. As if he’d believed he’d never feel its warmth on his face again. She stared. He was just as beautiful as she’d always known he’d be. Tall and muscular, with the physique of a warrior, or in this day and age, a soldier—one of those super, special forces kind. He had unruly black hair that touched his shoulders, and skin of a sun-kissed gold, which might be why he was enjoying the sun so much. She wondered about the color of his eyes, but when she looked at his profile, she saw a solitary tear roll over his cheek. He made no move to brush it away, simply dropped his head to his chest and breathed.

  Maeve’s heart ached for him. She couldn’t be human and not empathize with such obvious pain. “Are you all right?”

  He didn’t answer right away. But then his head lifted and he looked at her. “No. To be honest, I may never be all right again.” He smiled, but it was a faint shadow of his earlier grin. “I would appreciate the tea, however. If that’s what you’re offering.”