Stone Guardian (15 page)

“No thanks, I don’t want a horde of suckers descending on me if I drew blood. And you,” Laire said, turning to the man who rounded out their spectacularly-
not
-happy-to-be-here trio, “You need to up your act as well.”

“Hey, I do blue.” His dark blond hair was a shaggy mess which hung over his forehead, almost covering yellow eyes but not hiding the scar that ran down the right side of his face into his well-trimmed beard.

“Wulver, blue jeans every day are as bad as Fallon’s forever black. I do not give you a pass.”

“But jeans do good things for my tushie.” He turned his back to Laire, raising the lumberjack overshirt with one hand while pointing at his derriere with the other. “See? Proof right there. Why mess with perfection?”

Laire ogled him a touch longer than necessary before giving her nod. “You win. That is a great butt, truly a class by itself.”

“Thank you.”

“Before Laire comes up with a reason why we should start removing clothes to prove some theory, I got a question.” Fallon said. “Can we teleport out of here if this turns ugly?”

“Nope, our only hope will be for you to swing your sword, Wulver to fang out, and me to set everything on fire…
Ooh!
Liquor,” And Laire turned away, walking to the bar.

“Laire, get back here! You do
not
drink before we meet with our mortal enemy.” Not even a stutter-step. Fallon’s head fell forward, the annoyance-and-more-annoyance mixture swirling through her synapses so familiar when dealing with Laire. She turned to Wulver. “Can’t you control her?”

Wulver snorted. “Can you?”

“You are the boss.”

“Like that’s ever worked.”

They went over to Laire who was pounding on the bar. “Hey! Walking blood bank, I need some service.”

The woman was in her mid-twenties, beautiful of course, because vampires would surround themselves with nothing else. She kept with the red-and-black theme in her tight corset and red lips. Her expression was a mixture of disdain and horror – but to-be-fair that was how most people looked at Laire’s outfits. “I don’t think you belong here.”

Laire plopped down on the barstool. “And I’m supposed to care about the opinion of someone who drools over corpses? Your implants have more sense than you do. Get me a boilermaker.”

The girl’s nostrils flared, which probably hurt when you took into account all those piercings. Still, she turned to fill the order. Laire called after her, “And hurry. Who knows when we’re going to be interrupted and I want my drink.”

“What are you, an alkie?” Fallon stood to the left of the mage while Wulver sat on the right.

“You are the one that said I needed to be pleasant to a suckhead and not start a war. Don’t harsh my means of achieving it.”

The music was low, played more to enhance the dark, sensual mood than as a main attraction. The majority of beings here were human, though a few elves and a couple nymphs were visible in the crowd. All of them beautiful and most of them women.

So where was their host?

Fallon extended her senses for the magical signatures. There by the far wall, a pulse of necromantic magic. And another in the middle of the dance floor. Neither were strong, acolytes monitoring the outer club or other low-level duties.

She extended further, discarding the weaklings. They would pose no threat if she needed to kill them to escape. Stronger here and there, but not yet, not quite…

Tendrils vibrating with a heavy thrum of magic wrapped around her senses, caressing down the length until it reached her body. Without her shields it would have engulfed her and demanded she kneel in its wake, shudder with despair, degradation… desire.

Reign.

A big tankard was placed in front of Laire, leaving the mage clasping her hands in childish display and with a gleeful, “Sweet! I was afraid all they would have is absinthe or shit like that.”

Wulver was on the stool next to Laire, leaning back so his thick arms rested behind him on the bar, the movement stretching his blue t-shirt tight across his chest. “I know we’re on time. How long do you think before they notice us?”

Fallon catalogued all eyes on them from both living and dead. “Oh, they’ve noticed us. But Reign wouldn’t be Reign if he didn’t exert his authority.”

Wulver nodded. He tried to appear nonchalant, unconcerned, but he failed so spectacularly the passerby’s were giving him looks of pity. Not unexpected, since there were few things bossman hated more than being surrounded by suckheads.

Then he tensed, his gaze fixed on the far end of the bar. “What’s this?”

Laire turned to look. She straightened in her seat, her hand going to fix her hair. “Oh, he’s cute!”

“Sure is. Too bad he’s up for sale to the highest bidder,” Fallon said, taking in the v-shaped torso and long legs of the man at the end of the bar.

“For sale?” parroted Laire, and damned if she didn’t reach for her purse.

“Give me that.” Fallon threw the purse to Wulver, who threw it behind him. “Please tell me you recognize the most in-demand mercenary in the business?”

“Why, did we have a drunken one-night stand you forgot to tell me about?”

The jeans and t-shirt combo marked the man as much an outsider as they. Anyone without training would buy the good-ole-boy obliviousness he projected – if good-ole-boys had thick black tribal tattoos running over large chunks of exposed skin and long black hair with dyed-red streaks in it – but the defined lines of his body were a little too tense, his stance too close to battle-ready for those used to war to mistake this man as a non-threat.

Motioning toward the end of the bar, Fallon said, “Since we’re waiting for Reign anyway, I’m heading over and saying hi, maybe ask him about a certain rumor we’ve heard.”

Wulver nodded, while Laire asked, “Can I come too and get his number?”

“I’m going to say no.”

When she was only a step away he called out, “Fancy meeting you here, Dragon Slayer. Hanging with vampires… seems I should have given the stories I heard a little more consideration.”

Leaning against the bar so her sword hand was free, Fallon said, “I was wondering why I’m seeing you here as well, Merc. I never took you for a guy who was interested in the lace and tights crowd. Searching for a new personal style?”

“No, not me. Only male elves can pull that off.”

“So, why are you here then?”

His shrug was perfect nonchalance, the movement hiking the shirt from his waistband and giving a quick glance of muscled torso. “Blood banks are legal under the treaty between the Seven Houses. No reason why I shouldn’t be here.”

“No, no reason. Meeting anyone special?”

He smiled at her, a deep dimple appearing with the movement. “Why? You looking for a date? While I’m flattered, I tend to like the ladies a little darker-haired and darker-skinned. However, I might know the perfect guy for you.”

“You are sweet to be so concerned over my love life, but I’ve decided only to date guys who have bigger swords than me.”

“I can see how that limits your dating pool.”

Reign would send for them any minute, and Merc wouldn’t meet with his client, not now that he’d seen them. So when he reached again for his drink, Fallon placed her hand over the glass.

His fingers folded into a strike form, but there were no further signs of aggression as he took her in and awaited her next move. Fallon said, “I’m not interested in a fight, I want to give a friendly warning. You’ve always been under our watch, but you’ve never done anything stupid enough to warrant being placed on our shit list. I advise you not to change that habit now.”

His smile held the same level of friendliness as a shark’s. “Whatever could you mean?”

“I’ve heard things about a spellbook and an auction run by a certain facilitator. Ring any bells?”

“Not a one. But if I hear anything, I’m coming straight to you.”

He was good – impossible to read and giving nothing away. Such a waste he hadn’t joined them when he was invited. “Appreciate that. Think about what I said. I’d hate for us to end up on opposite sides.”

Merc grabbed his shot from the table. After saluting her, he brought it to his lips and drank it down, the strong column of his throat advertising the liquid’s path. “I find I’m a little tired. If you’ll excuse me.” With that, he left.

Wulver’s eyes were on her as she made her way back. He gave a small shake with his head, indicating he didn’t want to talk about it yet. Yeah, probably best not to discuss their business around here.

Moments after Merc walked out of the club, a vampire walked through the crowd and toward their little group. While his necromantic energy was unmistakable, his eyes were not red. So not a true vampire, merely one of the serving boys.

One who had overestimated his power, the poor deluded bastard, because instead of stopping some distance away he came to stand right before the three of them. Holding out his hand, he said, “I need your sword.”

Laire snorted into her drink while Wulver’s chuckles sounded on Fallon’s other side. Smartasses. She really didn’t want to deal with baby vamp right now. Going to see Reign was never an activity that put her in a happy mood, and if Reign was tempting her into a fight by sending some fool into her path, it was a ploy that had a good chance of working. “Everyone needs my sword sweet-cheeks, but I’m the only one who’s going to be holding it. Now run along, because I’m not supposed to fight anyone tonight.”

The vampire’s eyes narrowed. His lip curled, flashing a hint of fang. “You will give me your sword, or I will beat your insolence out of you.”

Laire laughed so hard she proceeded to fall off the chair. Through the slightly-screechy, slightly-snorty display, she managed to eke out, “He’s killing me here. Tell him to stop.”

The vampire was young and wanted to start a fight. Fallon was feeling charitable enough to give it to him, but if she started a fight, their fearless leader would scold Laire, and Laire would mope for a week, and all in all, it wasn’t worth it. Besides, she could turn this around and work it to her advantage, maybe get out of this damn meeting. “Tenro goes where I go. I’m either admitted to Reign with my sword, or I leave.”

Wulver’s low, “Don’t even think it, Fallon,” squashed that plan. Damn.

“Master Reign, human. Do not take such liberties with his name.”

Laire had calmed down from her laughing fit enough she could stand by her chair again. At the vamp’s words she piped up. “Trust us junior, Reign wants nothing more than for her to take liberties with him.”

Before she could smack Laire, a bald, dark-skinned man appeared behind the vampire. Sleek and elegant, he was all smooth lines, from his expensive suit complete with tie and cufflinks to the well-trimmed mustache and goatee. He bowed to Fallon. “Lady Fallon, please forgive your treatment. I am here to escort you to Master Reign.”

The young vampire voiced his displeasure. “But the human has a sword.”

The man’s gaze beat into the young vampire, and the vampire shrank from it. The man spoke. “Listen well. Whenever Lady Fallon appears, you are to immediately bring her to our Master. Do you understand?”

The vampire bowed and scurried away, escaping the anger emanating from the suited man. The man’s almost-black eyes focused on her, deliberate in his exclusion of Laire and Wulver. “My apologies, Lady Fallon. He did not know of you. If you and your guests will come this way.”

Wulver looked at her with a
told you
expression. Letting loose her sigh only in her own mind, Fallon took the lead and followed the man.

Laire spoke low at her side. “Who is that?”

“Zemar. He’s Reign’s personal bodyguard.”

“But he’s human?”

“I have no idea what he is.”

Zemar led them to the back of the club, where a well-hidden door awaited them and opened to a hellish wonderland. The outer club Outside was decadent, but in here, in this room, it was the first level of Dante’s hell. Everywhere was flesh and pain and degradation and underneath it all, the copper tang of blood, oppressive and inescapable.

Wulver’s energy flared and Fallon turned back to see his eyes brighten and turn translucent in the dim light. She put her hand on his arm, his skin shuddering under her palm.

It was unfair that Kyo sent Wulver instead of coming himself. None of them liked being here, but a place like this was special torture for Wulver. But he was here, and none of them could be weak in front of an enemy. Fallon’s fingertips bit harder into Wulver’s forearm in wordless demand, and Wulver blinked, his eyes back into their normal yellow the next time they met hers.

They followed Zemar, passing scenes of damaged carnality on all sides. One woman was flat on a table, her legs spread wide as a man pounded into her with inhuman strength. Two vampires hovered over her chest, biting her breasts as she screamed out her pleasure. Another corner held a woman being whipped. With each stroke, vampires would come to lick the trickling blood off her back.

The back of the room had a wide set of stairs led to the second floor, an open space that overlooked the cavernous club area. Here the gothic scheme morphed into chrome-and-glass and clean minimal lines.

A large, luxurious white couch spanned one end of the back wall to the other. A dozen beings sat on the couch – all but one a woman, all of them otherworldly beautiful, all laughing as though they weren’t part of a nightmare. Blood and alcohol lined the table in front of them, as well as other stimulants that guaranteed they wouldn’t have to live with their conscience for yet another night.

In the middle was the lone male. Physically he appeared to be a human man in his mid-twenties. Impeccable grooming and stylish dark good looks, and an old world manner evident even though he was doing nothing save sitting on the couch. Ungodly beautiful, with a square jaw and thick brows over deep-set blood-red eyes, nicely formed mouth and a straight roman nose.

He had a woman on each side, both of them stroking and nuzzling him. He paid them no mind.

His eyes sought and stayed fast on Fallon, roaming the contours of her face, her body, the marking so intense it was almost physical. “Fallon.”