The Stone Warriors: Damian (3 page)

Currently, the giant warrior in question was giving her an irritated look, obviously waiting for her to absolve him of this supposed blood debt. But he drew himself up and answered her question anyway. “Damian Stephanos, in the service of my lord Nicodemus. And your name?”

Shit. She was nearly hyperventilating. She couldn’t believe it. Nick, Nicodemus . . . they were practically the same thing. Had Nicodemus been one of Nick’s ancestors? Was that why he was so interested in the statues? That had to be it. Nick must have had some many times great-grandfather who’d created a few ensorcelled statues, and he wanted them back. And, oh my God, now she
really
needed to call him!

She glanced up and realized that the big guy had told her his name, and she was supposed to reciprocate. She grimaced. She had to tell him something, but names had power. Few people realized it anymore, but your name could be used against you by someone with the right kind of magical talent, and enough ill intent. And this guy definitely had some magic going for him. Though it was odd, more like what she’d feel from an artifact rather than a person. But then, if her suspicions were right about him being . . . well, a
statue
up until a few minutes ago, he probably wasn’t from
this era, so who knew what sort of magic he possessed? It could well be something she’d never encountered before.

“Where’d you come from?” she asked him instead of answering his demand for her name.

His scowl deepened. “A place you’ve never heard of,” he snapped. “Your name, woman?”

Woman
again?
He was
not
winning any points with that one. “Casey,” she said shortly. It was a nickname, something that couldn’t be used against her.

“Casey,” he repeated, as if he was tasting something sour. Then he shrugged his massive shoulders and repeated his earlier mantra, “I saved your life. The blood debt is paid.”

She considered the situation. He
had
saved her life, though she’d ended up losing the Talisman. And she couldn’t be sure yet that he actually
was
one of Nick’s statues. On the other hand, he definitely was a big fighting machine, and she could use that. He was a genius with a blade and seemed just as comfortable with that HK he was slinging around like an oversized pistol.

More to the point in this case, however, was that, unlike most people, she actually knew what a blood debt was, and so she knew they were real. As a so-called “sensitive,” she was one of those rare humans who could detect the presence of magic in both people and things. Granted, her skill when it came to people wasn’t that strong, and if the person’s magical talent was weak, she might not detect it at all. But there was no one she knew who exceeded her ability when it came to artifacts and devices, except maybe Nick, who was also the only person who had a more exhaustive knowledge on the subject than she did. He had some minor magical talent of his own, too. She could sense it, but had never seen him use it. And now she had a new theory—that magical talent ran in his family from way back, a talent that he’d inherited, though his was vastly diminished.

She didn’t have any ancient magical ancestors that she knew of. But her inborn sensitivity to magic had led her from the FBI academy at Quantico, where Nick had found and recruited her, all the way to this stinking alley in an undistinguished city in the Midwest, where a massive warrior was talking to her about blood debts.

In her book, hunting down magical artifacts meant she had to understand them. When the others in her FBI class had been studying federal law and penal codes, she’d been immersed in ancient texts and crumbling codices. So she knew that blood debts were one of the strongest bindings in the world of magic. Blood was life. But how had this dangerous man ended up blood-bound to her?

“Explain something to me,” she said slowly. “This blood debt between us . . . when were we bound?”

The stranger, Damian, compressed his lips impatiently, but he had no choice really. If he wanted her to release him, he’d have to give her what she wanted. “You spilled your blood on me,” he growled, every bit as savage-sounding as the hounds he’d just killed. “You gripped my arm and asked for my help.”

“I gripped . . .” Casey stared, her gaze running up and down his heroic form. Her crazy theory didn’t seem so crazy anymore, but still, she really needed to see for herself. She raced down the back of the building, up through the narrow alley, and finally around to the street where she could stare up at the top of the Kalman. The Guardian was gone. She swallowed hard. It was possible. She’d read about things like this, but even in a world where blood curses were real, she’d considered the idea of a cursed statue to be more fantasy than reality—the result of some ancient paralyzing disease that primitive humans back in the day had resorted to calling a magical curse in order to explain the phenomenon to themselves. But now . . . she turned to stare at Damian, who’d followed her around the side of the building and stood watching her with such impatience that she expected him to start tapping his foot at any moment. What he
didn’t
do was follow her gaze to the roof and the empty space where the statue had been. Was it because he already knew what she’d find, or rather
not
find, there?

“The guardian?” she asked softly, as if by not saying it out loud, the illusion would shatter and it wouldn’t be real.

Finally, he looked up at the top of the building, his expression a mixture of wistfulness and horror. “For a hundred years, I stood silent watch on this city, witnessing all manner of change. More than fifty of those years were on the top of that building. Before that . . .” He paused long enough that Casey thought he wasn’t going to continue, but then his dark gaze swung to her, his eyes piercing her with their intensity. “Your plea for assistance, sealed with the offering of your blood, broke a curse that had trapped me for millennia. But now, I have saved your life, and the debt is paid.”

Casey studied him thoughtfully. Swords were always useful when dealing with magic. Too many spells had the side effect of rendering mechanical weapons ineffective. Blades, on the other hand, worked pretty much all the time. She carried a knife as part of her regular equipment, but a
sword
wielded by someone who knew how to use it? Now
that
would come in handy.

On the other hand, it was never a good idea to mess with curses. They had a tendency to backfire on anyone who tried to cheat the terms or manipulate the result. She tried to remember exactly what she’d said up on the roof. She’d piled out of the elevator, blood dripping down her arm, so there was no mystery about the
blood
part of the debt. But what had she said to him? Maybe she should ask him. But then, he might only tell her whatever would get her to agree that this so-called debt had been paid.

“Let’s say I buy into the idea of a blood debt,” she said, pretending far more skepticism than she was feeling. “Does that work both ways? Do I have some debt to you, too?”

He narrowed his gaze on her. She might have laid her doubt on a little too thick.

“What did I say that started all of this?” she asked instead. Artifice had never been her strong suit. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m happy as hell to have freed you from what sounds like a nightmare existence, but how did I do it? Did I say the magic word, squeeze some mark on your arm . . . what?”

His expression pinched unhappily, and Casey thought,
Ah ha!

“You asked for my help,” he said sourly. “And the blood on your hand sealed the bond, breaking the curse.”

“So it was the blood that did it? No one else in all these years has bled on you?”

“It was both,” he admitted. “The combination of the blood and your plea for assistance.”

“Huh. So I asked for your help.”

He rolled his eyes, clearly seeing where she was going with this. But the very idea of an ancient warrior rolling his eyes startled her into laughing. And that, in turn, seemed to startle
him.
He got this surprised look on his face, and then he smiled. It wasn’t a big smile, not a grin, but a wistful one that softened his entire demeanor and made him look more like a man and less like a warrior.

“I haven’t heard that sound with my own ears in—” He paused, as if unsure how many years it had been. “—a very long time,” he said finally, appearing sad for a brief moment, before his jaw clenched and he was a warrior again.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows in question.

“For whatever happened to you back then,” she explained. Then she shrugged and added, “and for what I’m about to do now.”

“The blood debt is paid,” he repeated darkly. “We part company now, and I will be about my own business.”

“What business is that?” she asked, more out of curiosity than anything else. She couldn’t let him leave, even if she had to shoot him to stop him, because she had a strong feeling that Nick definitely would want to meet him. But what business could a thousands-year-old warrior possibly have in 21st century America?

“It has nothing to do with you,” he said coolly, “but you did free me so I will tell you this much. I must find my brother warriors.”

She frowned. “I don’t mean to be insensitive, but they would have died a long time ago, wouldn’t they? Unless . . . were they trapped in stone, too?” Was
that
what Nick’s four statues were about? Were all of them ancient warriors who’d been cursed?

“That is not your concern.”

Casey was getting a little pissed about being constantly brushed off like an irritating bug. So she took more pleasure than she should have from what she said next.

“Well, look, I hate to rain on your parade”—okay, that was a lie—“but I still need your help. They got the Talisman, and I need to get it back before people start dying.”

DAMIAN SCOWLED at the woman while trying to decide if he was honor-bound to continue helping her or not. Typical woman. They used words as weapons to compensate for their other weaknesses, constantly twisting their meaning, pretending to say one thing while intending another. Unfortunately, this particular woman probably had the right of it this time. There was no question about what she’d said when she’d broken the curse. She’d asked for his help. A broad and nonspecific bond that he’d never have agreed to normally.

On the other hand, he didn’t want to risk being trapped in that damn stone prison again. Helping her would mean delaying the search for his fellow warriors and for their leader, Nicodemus. Sotiris would never have succeeded in cursing Nico the way he had the rest of them. Damian believed this with all his heart. Nico was too powerful, Sotiris’s equal even on a bad day. And if the day was good, Nico far surpassed him. Which was why Sotiris had resorted to cursing Damian and his fellow warriors instead, hoping to weaken Nico enough to defeat him.

But unless Sotiris had succeeded in killing him on that long-ago battlefield, Nico would still be alive even all these centuries later, because sorcerers were virtually immortal. Maybe he should find Nico first. It was possible that
he’d
already located the others, that Damian was the last of the four to be freed. That would be a joyous reunion.

First, however, he had to deal with this woman, and that meant helping her retrieve this
talisman
she was so concerned about. But a few days’ delay was better than the alternative. And maybe while they recovered the artifact, he could do some searching of his own. She was a creature of this age, which meant she’d have modern devices at her disposal and the knowledge to use them.

He’d told her the truth about his imprisonment: he’d watched the world change and expand from within his confinement. But seeing something happen wasn’t enough to
know
it. He knew things called computers existed, and he knew in principle what they were capable of. But he had no idea how to use one. He knew about cars, but not how to drive. About electric lights, but not how they were powered. On the other hand, give him a weapon, any weapon, and he would master it in an instant. It was in his DNA. He wasn’t
a
warrior, he was
the
warrior, the archetype, and this Casey woman could certainly use his help. Look at the state she’d been in before he’d saved her life. So, he would help her and he would learn. And when they were finished, he would find Nico, and together they would free any of their fellow warriors who remained trapped.

“I will help you,” he told the woman. “But I will need information. You will brief me, and I will set our strategy.”

He didn’t exactly get the reaction he’d expected.

She gave a very unwomanly snort and said, “Yeah, right. I don’t think so, buddy. You’ve been stuck on a roof for a few decades, so I think I’ll take this one. You can be the muscle.”

The muscle? “Your ignorance is understandable,” he said with forced patience. “You know nothing of me or my time. I am a veritable god of war. My knowledge of such things is unsurpassed.”

“You
were
all of those things. Right now, you’re becoming a pain in my ass, and I’m beginning to think you’re more trouble than you’re worth. I like the sword. But I can live without it. So there you go. You’re free. Good-bye.”

She turned her back on him and started off up the street, cursing under her breath, holding her bloody arm, and limping on one foot.

Damian frowned. She had powerful enemies. It wasn’t just anyone who could call up hellhounds and force them to do a human’s bidding. And she was a fool to go against them alone when he was willing to assist. But if the foolish woman wanted to fight her battles alone, he was more than willing to have his obligation discharged. She had to say the right words, however, or he could find himself trapped again.

He caught up with her in a few long strides. “You must say the words.”

She gave him an irritated glance and kept walking. “I told you. You’re free. Fly away, little birdie.”

Damian drew himself up to his full height, galled by her dismissive attitude. She should be on her knees begging for his help. He smiled slightly, thinking of other things she could do for him while on her knees. For all her arrogance, she was a desirable female. Tall and lithe, with black hair and deep brown eyes. Too headstrong for his taste, however, and apparently a warrior. He’d never believed women belonged on the battlefield, never thought they had the courage for it, though there had certainly been some who disagreed with him. But in his opinion, women had been good for two things—sex and babies, preferably sons who would someday grow to be great warriors like their father. His mind shied away from those memories almost as soon as he thought them.