Underground Warrior (3 page)

She blinked at her reflection, then looked down.
Toes.
That’s why she’d gone upstairs. Boots!

But Trace rapped on the door—it had to be him—and she was out of time.

“Breathe,” Sibyl whispered to herself. She’d faced down gang members, in juvie, if reluctantly. “Oxygen is fuel.” Surely she could face one guy. One good guy, a hero even.
Her
hero.

With a groan that had nothing to do with physical effort, she pushed aside the loft’s sliding door—and there he stood. Trace hadn’t changed in the months since he’d fled Dallas, maybe fled her. At six-four, he still towered over her. His hair, a much darker brown than hers, looked like he’d never been subjected to pink capes or scalp massages. Considering her belief that wealth corrupted people, that was a plus. So were his swarthy laborer’s tan and his worn jeans and T-shirt, stretched to accommodate his breadth. He didn’t seem to have shaved for days; give him another week, and he’d have a full beard.

Yes—this was her Trace. His constancy somehow soothed her.

Only belatedly did she notice that he was carrying in one hand something the size of a handful of canes, wrapped in a stained tarp.

He seemed oddly distracted as he said, “Hey, Shortstuff. Can I come in?”

Belatedly, Sibyl backed out of his way, then closed the door behind him as he stepped into the high-ceilinged apartment. She turned to see him pivoting, to take it all in.

He whistled through his teeth. “You live
here?
”

Sibyl managed to say, “I’m house-sitting,” in more than a whisper. Barely. When in doubt, give information. “It used to be a warehouse. From the 1800s. You went away.”

Wait. That last part wasn’t supposed to be out loud.

“Yeah. The others were—” Trace looked at her more closely. Then he ducked and
looked
at her, and his already deep voice roughened. “You look different.”

New clothes. New hair. Different makeup. Odd emotions. Sibyl flushed with embarrassment that she hadn’t been subtle enough. Now he’d think it was for him. He’d feel sorry for her or, worse, laugh at her….

“The others were what?” she prompted, desperate to distract him.

He didn’t laugh. He kept staring at her, even as he said, “The others were going full-steam on that plan they had. You know. The one about redeeming an old society full of rich muckety-mucks?”

“The Comitatus,” she proffered, since it was an odd name and so probably hard for him to remember. “Latin for an armed group. Some also cite it as a source for feudalism, an arrangement between the superior and inferior.” He winced at that last word. Oh, please, someone stop her. “Would you like a drink?”

“You got beer?”

She shook her head, afraid to open her mouth.

“Anything’s good. Anyway—” He followed her to the kitchen. She angled her body so he wouldn’t see into her foodless fridge. “Smith and Mitch were all about, ‘we can save them,’ and I didn’t give a crap, so I headed home for a while. Louisiana.”

So he hadn’t fled her? He just hadn’t considered her either way. Maybe he only noticed her when he was rescuing her—or needed information, like today. “Could you look at something for me, tell me what you think?” At least she had information.

She got two root beers out of the fridge and turned back, almost bumping into him. His big body seemed to radiate warmth, after the artificial chill. She wanted to lean against him, maybe snuggle closer.

Don’t snuggle closer!

“I know,” she said, lifting one of the bottles of soda upward in offering. He squinted as he took it, as if momentarily lost in their conversation. “The Comitatus is beyond redemption.” Killers. If they hadn’t killed her father, why would they have railroaded her for the crime?

“You think so, huh?”

That surprised her. “Don’t you think so?”

“I don’t think about it.” But of course he wouldn’t. It was a
secret
society. Every piece of information she’d collected through the years, she’d gotten covertly. And often illegally. “That’s kind of why I wanted to talk to you. I need the opinion of someone on the outside. It’s easy to know what I’ll hear from the guys.”

“Not much.” So this visit was Comitatus related! “Because the Comitatus take an oath of secrecy when they join, at fifteen.”

“Um…yeah. Hey, wanna sit down?”

This was what came of never having visitors. Sibyl felt herself blush as she nodded and headed toward the living area. She jumped, startled, when Trace touched a palm to her back, as if to guide her. To settle her. It might have worked, if he hadn’t snatched it away.

“Sorry,” he muttered, when she glanced, wide-eyed, over her shoulder.

She shook her head, unsure how to tell him she’d liked it. She hadn’t been touched since…the scalp massage, by the hairdresser. And at one point in the last few months, Arden had hugged her—that had been strange. And then when Trace rescued her from the train. Less than three times in three months.

At least the loft’s real owner only had settees, not sofas. When she sat on one end, drawing her knees up to her chest, and Trace sank onto the other end, barely a foot of stone-colored suede separated them. She watched how Trace folded himself forward, in an attempt to make his big frame comfortable on the low seat, bracing his elbows on his thighs, clasping his big hands. She wished she knew how to draw, to capture the lines of his rangy body. Her brain wasn’t working right.

Especially not when he looked at her again, raised his eyebrows and grinned. Trace had a great grin, like a joke they were in on together. She was supposed to say something, wasn’t she? But…if she spoke, then she’d end up answering his questions and he’d go away again. Of course, him leaving would happen either way, but did she have to be the one to launch the visit’s end?

“You really do look different,” he said again, and she ducked her head, no longer in on the joke. She wanted to run to the bathroom and scrub off the expensive makeup, mess up her hair, go back to Goth eyeliner and nothing else. She wanted to undo the clasp that held some of her hair behind her head, so that it would swing forward and she could hide behind it. Yes, the new look had helped her get into this apartment, far better than most of the places she’d squatted in the past. But that wouldn’t matter if he laughed at her.

Then he said, “I like it.” And his voice sounded strangled again, and when she peeked back he wasn’t looking at her. He was frowning at his big, clasped hands, like
he
felt uncomfortable. Maybe he wasn’t making fun of her. No—edit that. This was Trace. Of course he wouldn’t make fun of her. He was her hero.

Sibyl risked a smile, though it felt uncertain and new on her lips. “Thank you,” she whispered.

Trace slanted a glance back at her, then grinned that between-you-and-me grin again, and Sibyl’s insides twisted with unfamiliar, not-quite-comfortable feelings. But as long as Trace was here, she guessed it was safe to feel them.

Still grinning, he leaned forward to where he’d set his long, thick bundle on the glass cocktail table and unfolded the tarp, as if presenting it with a flourish. In shifting his weight forward and then back, he managed to end up closer to her when he sat back. Sibyl liked his wall of warmth. But she followed his lead to look at what he’d brought, so that this new feeling could venture out without the threat of direct attention.

She frowned. “It’s a sword.” An old, scarred, dusty sword.

“I found it behind the wall of the old LaSalle bungalow,” he agreed, raising it by the pommel like a warrior offering his strength and sword to his overlord…right before riding off to conquer peaceful villages, kill menfolk, enslave children and rape women as spoils of war. Sibyl knew his friends had gotten all excited over an ancient Greek sword, back when she’d met them. They called it the sword of Aeneas, and they acted like it was the holy grail. Like it was a sacred relic. A
Comitatus
relic.

Maybe it was. Swords, like guns, had only one purpose—to kill and maim people, maybe to coerce obedience with the threat of killing and maiming. Con quest. Power. And this sword was LaSalle’s?

The court finds Isabel Daine guilty of arson and manslaughter.

So much for that new, precious feeling. Now all she felt was nausea. “Put it away.”

“But this is what I wanted to ask you about—”

She used her feet to push herself up onto the arm of the settee, leaning as far back from him and his blade as possible.
“Put it away!”

Trace leaned forward, rewrapped the sword, then sat back.

Well on his end of the settee.

This time, Sibyl didn’t have to wonder. He thought she was crazy. Maybe she was. But if so, that was the fault of the Comitatus, of LaSalle, and of whoever had really killed her father. The fault of the kind of men who got excited about weaponry and violence and swords.

That didn’t make her heart hurt any less.

Chapter 2

N
ow Trace had gone and turned her back into a scaredy-cat.

He just hoped she wouldn’t faint again.

He wished he knew how much of her problem was the sword, and how much was really him. Little Sibyl had surprised the hell of him. He’d expected to find her staying at some ratty, rent-by-the-week hotel, the kind he and his friends got since quitting their legacies and the Comitatus had left them with cash-only options and little cash. Instead, he found their conspiracy theorist in a glamorous, urban loft. And as for Sibyl herself…?

Trace had thought she was cute before, with her big Bambi eyes and the lithe, ballerina body she hid under oversize clothes. He’d liked how she didn’t just talk over
his
head, but the heads of his overly educated friends, which was fun to watch—and which he figured proved her claim that she wasn’t a teenager. Nobody got that much education that young. He’d admired her healthy distrust of people, which seemed like its own kind of smart. But at the time, she’d put out such a thick wall of don’t-touch-me that he’d more or less kept his distance. He tried to never forget that someone as big as he was could scare people just by saying hello.

Today she’d looked…welcoming. Not just her shiny, clean hair, pulled back to let people see her solemn face, or her nice clothes, though those helped.
Her.

He could have sworn she was glad to see him, and it had felt great. Trace couldn’t remember the last time someone had been honestly glad to see him, except maybe his ma. He couldn’t help but want to get closer to her, want to know more.

’Course, Sibyl aimed the exact opposite look at the sword, times ten. Even after he’d wrapped it. What, did she think it would leap out and bite her? Still, she at least sank down to sit on the arm of the loveseat, instead of just using it to brace herself farther away from him. The position made her look taller.

“So, what’s with the crazy?” he asked—and she winced. Great job. That would be why he had more weekend flings than regular girlfriends, wouldn’t it? Still…was he supposed to ignore this? “It’s just a sword.”

“It’s a
Comitatus
sword.” She all but spat the name of his ancestors’ secret society.

Cool! Information, just like he’d hoped. “You can tell by looking?”

“No! It’s…” She took a deep breath, as if settling herself. To his relief, she sank back onto the seat cushion, wrapping her arms protectively around her knees. The don’t-touch-me-vibes were back with a vengeance. “Repro ductions are mostly a twentieth century art form. If the wall was old, this is authentic. No later than eleventh century. Maybe as early as eighth. Dark Ages.”

“And you saw all that while you were begging me to put it away.”

She scowled at the word
begging,
which was cute, until she said, “Yes.”

Okay, then. Even before she rolled her eyes—which she did—Trace saw she thought he was stupid. Compared to her, he probably was, but he didn’t like the reminder. Just to be obstinate, he leaned a little closer to her, as if just to listen. He hadn’t forgotten his size. He was just…using it.

She smelled good. Like girl. Like a wealthy girl, damn it.

She didn’t seem the least bit intimidated. “Cruciform crossguard,” she catalogued, as if that meant something…so damn it, maybe he was stupid. Compared to her. That’s why he’d come to her, wasn’t it? “Double-edged, with only a slight taper, so an earlier than later period. Moderately rounded tip, so more a slashing than a stabbing weapon. Maybe a Viking sword. More likely Gallic.” She eyed his expression, then clarified, “French.”

“And you know that ’cause…?”

“The five-lobed pommel—that round cap on the end of the grip? Viking invention. Balances the weight. So does the fuller.”

He narrowed his eyes. Now she was making up words.

“The fuller is the groove down the center. Roman swords don’t have it. So post-Roman Empire. And it’s a one-handed sword, to be used with a shield, so pre-High Middle Ages. Also…Vikings. Assimilated by then.”

“Vikings aren’t French.” Trace knew damned well the LaSalle family came from French roots. Hell, most of Louisiana came from French roots. He liked the idea of some French knight wielding the sword in heroic deeds better than he liked descending from Vikings. Weren’t Vikings more about murdering and pillaging?

“They’re tied to Norman French. Also, true Vikings preferred battle-axes.”

Trace chuckled at the image of murdering, pillaging Vikings getting chewed out by big, domineering women.

Sibyl ducked her head and said, “The weapons. Axes. For battle.”

“I knew that.” And this time, he did. He just liked the other picture better…and he thought he detected a tiny, return smile. Reciting facts seemed to have relaxed Sibyl some, anyway. He felt mean for having leaned closer, but he didn’t want to lean away. She didn’t seem worried, so he hooked an elbow over the back cushion and stayed where he was. Where he could better smell her. “So it’s really old. What else makes it a—a secret society sword?”

“Comitatus,” she offered, as if he kept forgetting the word. No wonder she thought he was dumb. But he’d taken a damned oath. That had been the deal. Take his father’s name, get his father’s money and respectability—join his father’s world, including the Comitatus. At the time, he hadn’t realized that no amount of money and respectability was worth it. So he’d gone ahead and taken their stupid vow of secrecy.