The Stone Warriors: Damian Page 6

  “You were shot, but the bullet went all the way through. A sharp chip of stone was lodged in your muscle, right by the bone,” he told her. “Were you standing next to a wall when you were shot?”

  Casey tried to think through the pain, replaying the moment she’d been wounded. “Yeah,” she said grimly. “I’d made it into the house and back out undetected, but someone shot from a balcony. The facing on the building was marble.”

  “That’s it,” he agreed, and she heard the click of a small stone hitting the table.

  Part of her was registering the fact that this was good news, but it was hard for that to sink in—sink in, ha ha—when her arm was on fire from the antiseptic liquid he was currently pouring over and around the wound. She shoved her fist into her mouth again, tears flowing freely down her face.

  “The front wound is minor,” he said calmly and used tape to fix a small square of gauze over the bloody hole. Non-adhesive tape, she reminded herself. It was the only kind in her kit, because she was allergic to adhesive. He went to work on the exit wound on the back of her shoulder, smearing antibiotic ointment around it, then covering it with a thick pad of dry gauze and securing it with more tape. The care he took with all of this almost made her want to like him.

  From the corner of her eye, she saw him pick up the Ace wrap. “I need to be able to move the arm,” she told him.

  He paused a moment, his fingers light on her shoulder, then said, “Understood.” With a few deft movements, he managed to stabilize her shoulder while still leaving her enough mobility to function.

  “There’s a plastic bottle of antibiotics in there,” she said, hearing the slur in her words. It wasn’t all vodka at this point. She was exhausted. “The brown container with a white cap,” she clarified for him, just in case. “I’ll need two pills.”

  “Here,” he said, then handed her a glass of water and the medication. She took the antibiotics as he collected the empty packaging from the gauze, crushing it all into a wad and tossing it in the trash.

  “I have to go to the store,” she said wearily. “You need clothes.”

  He grinned, switching from caring medic to cocky warrior in an instant. This was the Damian she’d come to expect over the course of their short acquaintance. “You don’t like the look?” he asked.

  She was just drunk enough to let him see the appreciation in her eyes as she did a slow scan of his naked chest and shoulders. “You don’t exactly blend.”

  He laughed out loud at that. “I never have.” He gathered the tweezers and other instruments in one big hand. “I’ll clean these in the bathroom,” he told her. “And then I’ll make use of the shower. You should sleep. That’s what I’ll be doing soon, and I won’t need any clothes for that. We can shop tomorrow.”

  “Not ‘we,’” she insisted, pulling the covers back with her good arm, then sliding onto the bed. “Me,” she mumbled, and closed her eyes as the meaning of his words sank in. No clothes for sleeping?

  DAMIAN STOOD OVER Cassandra, admiring the expanse of unblemished skin on her naked back, the curve of one full breast just visible above the towel she’d clutched so desperately against her chest. His fingertips tingled, remembering the satin feel of that skin, but then his gaze caught on the stark white bandage and he flinched. The wound was vicious, for all that the bullet had missed the bone and savaged only soft tissue. The weapons of his time had been brutal and efficient, but humans had come a long way since then. Not only in destructive power, but in the ability to strike from a distance. On the battlefields he’d known, men had to put themselves at risk to succeed. Not so today. The gun that had torn through Cassandra’s shoulder had been fired from far enough away that the shooter had missed his target. The shot had no doubt been intended to kill, not merely wound.

  He reached down and pulled the blanket up, covering her completely. He’d lied when he said he had no desire to see her breasts. She was a beautiful woman, and he was a man who hadn’t had the pleasure of a woman’s body in a very long time. A man who’d had a different woman in his bed every night, sometimes more than one. But these were difficult times they found themselves in. More than simple strangers, he and Cassandra were from entirely different worlds in more ways than one. Besides, he was first and foremost a warrior, and sex had no place on the battlefield. It was what had condemned him in the first place, the root of the curse Sotiris had used to secure his prison.

  Damian Stephanos, warrior and lover, who bedded the Amazon queen, but refused to take the battlefield by her side.

  Those words had haunted him for centuries, repeating in his head over and over as he’d lain buried in a cave, waiting, hoping that someone would find him, longing for the sun on his face, the breeze against his skin. And he’d remembered the fury in Queen Hippolyta’s eyes when he’d relegated her Amazons to the rear of the battle, safe behind the same walls that guarded the children, the ancients, and the rest of the women. She’d considered herself a great warrior, but all he’d seen were her delicate bones and the naked skin designed to entice a man, to distract him from the defense of his own life. He’d been convinced that women had no place on the battlefield.

  And yet, as he gazed down at Cassandra, at her slender form outlined beneath the blanket, the elegant line of her features, smoothed now in sleep, he saw a warrior. For all her delicate appearance, she was as strong as any of his fighters had been back then, and with courage and determination that surpassed many of them. Times had changed. Logically, he knew that, but he hadn’t lived those changes. She considered herself the leader of their duo. He understood why she would think so; this was her time, not his. But he was a god of war. He had only to touch a weapon and it became his. He was able to comprehend and adapt to events on a battlefield with a speed that she couldn’t hope to match.

  He sighed. As odd as it seemed, he was tired. After all those years in stone, one would think he’d be eager to stretch his legs, to run until his muscles gave out. But it seemed that instead of storing energy, his long imprisonment had weakened him. His body would recover soon enough, far faster than a regular human’s. But he still needed rest, and found himself suddenly longing for the genuine simplicity of closing his eyes and sleeping.

  Crossing to the bathroom, he tossed the scissors and other implements into the basin, then-bathed them in soapy water, while mentally tallying up the list of supplies they would need to replenish Cassandra’s first-aid kit. Returning to the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed and untied and removed his boots. Then, suffering from none of Cassandra’s modesty, he stood to unlace his leather pants. He was a little surprised that the leather had held up, that it didn’t immediately shred in his hands as he pulled the pants down his legs and kicked them aside. Whatever else he and Cassandra might disagree on, they were in perfect accord with regard to this. He needed new clothing.

  Standing perfectly naked, he stretched his arms to the ceiling. By all that was holy, it felt good to be alive again, to feel the taut pull of his muscles, the hot rush of his blood beneath the skin. He tipped his head from side to side, hearing the crack of bone as his spine adjusted to the full range of motion once more. And then his gaze fell on the shower behind its enclosure of clear glass. He knew what a shower was, had heard hundreds, maybe thousands, of people refer to it during his long sojourn in stone . . . and he’d covertly admired Cassandra’s form behind the steam-blurred glass when he’d gone in to get towels while she showered earlier.

  He strode into the bathroom now and opened the shower door, then reached in and turned the knobs. It took a few minutes, but he learned how to balance the hot and cold water quickly enough, then stepped underneath the pounding spray. He swallowed a groan of intense pleasure. Indoor plumbing might very well be the greatest invention of this time. It was sheer luxury to soap his body, to empty the small bottle of shampoo over his head and wash his hair. He stood under the flow of hot water until he
thought he’d sleep where he stood, until his skin was wrinkled with exposure, then he turned off the water and grabbed one of the big towels sitting in a fluffy pile on the countertop. He toweled himself dry, marveling at the soft, absorbent fabric as he walked out into the bedroom, the air cool after the steam-filled bathroom.

  Dropping the towel to the floor, abruptly exhausted, he eyed the sleeping choices available. There were two beds side-by-side, both the same size, although not big enough to suit his liking. One was covered with Cassandra’s various pieces of gear—her duffel bag, computer case, and boxes of ammunition for the many weapons arrayed on the table against the far wall. She slept in the other. He knew where he would have preferred to sleep. He smiled, imagining her reaction upon waking to find him lying next to her . . . naked. His cock stirred at the thought, but he wasn’t that big a fool. Or that rude. Women came to him willingly; he had no need to trick them.

  He gripped the edges of the heavy covering on the second bed, gathered them together along with all of her gear, and deposited it on the floor. Then he slipped beneath the soft sheets, put his head on a pillow, and truly slept for the first time since he’d been cursed.

  Chapter Three

  Lawrence, Kansas

  NICK STARED DOWN at the list of missed calls and saw Cassandra’s name over and over. Four calls in the space of a couple of minutes, but only one voicemail, which had been left after the last call. What the hell? She’d been sent on what should have been a straightforward recovery. The target device was dangerous enough, but the creep who’d bought it was a nobody with no magical talent and no record of having purchased any other artifacts. Nick wasn’t convinced that the guy even knew what he’d bought. He’d probably thought he was getting nothing more than a beautiful and unique piece of glass sculpture that matched his house decor.

  The Talisman was indeed beautiful, and so unique that when one spoke of the Talisman, no one questioned which artifact you meant. But its uniqueness went well beyond the beauty of its form. Rich green in color, it had the appearance of a rare emerald of unusual size and shape. It was round and flat, like a stone, smooth, rather than faceted. But the absence of faceting did nothing to dull the brilliant light deep within. It was mounted, as if for a breastplate or necklace, surrounded by an elaborate bronze setting that twined up and around the gem like a cage. The bronze spoke to the antiquity of the piece; it was a metal that few would use in the modern age. Nick knew about the Talisman because he’d seen it in the home of its creator—a sorcerer of modest skill who he knew for a fact was long dead . . . because he’d been the one to kill him.

  The man had made the fatal error of mistaking youth for weakness, and had tried to seize one of Nick’s territories, a small but fertile strip of land with a single, well-constructed fortress where the farmers and their families had lived. The Talisman had disappeared in the subsequent fighting, and Nick had lost track of it because he’d been rather abruptly called back to his father’s court. He’d been only fourteen years old at the time, and still very much under his father’s rule, despite the burgeoning power of his sorcery. Two years later, he’d disavowed his father and established his own authority, but by then, the Talisman had become less than even a faint memory.

  But now it had turned up again, unearthed by chance in the Caucasus Mountains. Nick doubted it was happenstance that had made that rediscovery possible. Certain magical devices were created to be easily found, and he suspected this one qualified. He still didn’t know what the artifact’s original purpose had been. Back then, he’d detected an odd energy about the piece, but it hadn’t troubled him enough to pursue it any further. In today’s world, however, with its dependence on electronics for almost everything, that same odd energy had the potential to do incredible harm. So much so that he’d considered sending another operative along with Casey to be certain of the recovery.

  In the final analysis, however, he’d discarded that idea, believing it would only call more attention to the Talisman, perhaps the very attention he was trying to avoid. And, alone of his hunters, Casey had the best chance of figuring out how the thing worked. Her talent was one in ten thousand, maybe even rarer than that. He didn’t have cause to admit it very often, but her skill exceeded even his when it came to seeing magical devices not so much for what they did as for how they did it. And, in the final analysis, understanding that was the key to destroying just about anything on this earth.

  Frowning, he played her lone voicemail.

  “Nick, we need to talk,” she said. Her voice was so soft that she was practically whispering, and it sounded like she had a shower running in the background. That was the sort of thing a person did to conceal the fact that she was on the phone, so no one would overhear. What the hell? Who was she hiding from? “The Talisman,” she said, then paused, as if listening to something. “I had it,” she continued, speaking even more quietly. “They took it back, but I’m on it. I know where it’s going, and I’ll get it back if I have to kill every one of those bastards to do it.”

  His frown deepened. Some of his hunters were former military, accustomed to shooting their way out of a situation. But Casey wasn’t one of them. Something must have happened to have her reacting this way. “That’s not why we have to talk, but I don’t want to say too much in a message like this. You never know who’s listening, right? Nick . . . remember the prime directive? The statues? Well, I think I might have one. So, call me, okay? It’s important.”

  Nick froze, staring down at his phone. Casey had located one of the statues? It was suddenly hard to breathe. Calm down, he warned himself. She could be mistaken. She’d used the word “might.” He hit return on Casey’s message and listened to her phone ring . . . and ring. No answer. His gut tightened in apprehension as he imagined all the reasons why that might happen. Stop it. She could be in the fucking shower. Right. The shower where she’d been hiding earlier. Or she could be sleeping. She was running the op alone, at least as far as he knew, and she could have turned off her phone to rest, if she was in a secure place . . . or to stop it from ringing if she wasn’t. He checked his watch. Two a.m., and he and Casey were in the same time zone. He revised his earlier assessment. She was almost certainly asleep, which meant there was nothing he could do until she woke up and called him back.

  Her phone rang a final time, and his call switched over to voicemail. “It’s me, Casey,” he said. “Call when you get this. I don’t care what time it is.”

  SOMEWHERE IN the Midwest

  Casey woke slowly, consciousness returning in tiny increments of increasing pain. First was the headache, which puzzled her at first, until she remembered the vodka. She groaned softly. There was a reason she rarely drank. But the discomfort quickly faded in importance compared to the rest of her body, which felt as if someone had been pounding on her with a mallet. Every bone in her body hurt, every muscle ached. She catalogued her symptoms as the previous day’s events came rushing back. Infection was a real possibility from the shoulder wound. That could be why she felt so awful. She remembered taking antibiotics, but the oral meds might not have been enough.

  She forced herself to sit up. It wasn’t unusual to be stiff and sore after an escape like she’d been through. No matter the shape one was in—and she was in great shape—all that running and crawling and crouching took a toll, especially when the adrenaline got pumping. Sometimes, you didn’t know how badly you’d been hurt until the adrenaline wore off. Of course, she’d never been shot before!

  She swung her legs over the side of the bed, reflexively grabbing the towel that fell away from her naked breasts. And that made her remember Damian. Her head came up, her gaze quickly falling on the opposite bed where he slept, seemingly unaware of her movements. Not quite trusting his innocent pose, she kept the towel over her breasts as she stood and walked the short distance to the bathroom. The light was on, the door cracked open to admit just a sliver of illumination into
the dark room. She didn’t know why Damian had left it like that, but she appreciated it. Blackout curtains could leave hotel rooms so dark that you couldn’t even walk to the bathroom without stubbing your toe.

  Closing the bathroom door behind her, she let the towel drop and stepped over to the full-length mirror on the wall, leaning in to check out her shoulder and anything else she might have missed. Between the gunfight and the long drive, and then the stress of having her shoulder cleaned up and bandaged, she’d been pretty foggy last night. She breathed a sigh of relief when she found only the usual cuts and scrapes and, of course, the big honking bandage on her shoulder.

  She moved her arm carefully, testing her range of motion and the limits of her pain. She had to admit, it felt a lot better than it had before Damian worked on it. Getting that piece of marble out had probably made a huge difference. She saw her first-aid kit sitting on the counter and took another two antibiotic pills, along with some acetaminophen for the pain. She had stronger pain meds in there, but she needed her head clear. Today was the beginning of a new campaign to recover the Talisman.

  The wordless rumble of a deep voice reminded her of her roommate. Pulling on one of the hotel robes, she cracked the door open, and found Damian sitting on the side of the bed, looking confused.

  He looked up and saw her. “Leave the door open please.” His voice was rough with emotion, and she realized it wasn’t confusion on his face, it was dread, and more than a little horror. She gave herself a mental slap upside the head. Of course! That was why he’d left the light on in the dark room. He’d been buried in a cave for centuries. The pitch-black hotel room had probably brought back those nightmare years.