“He could try.”
His tone is utterly unconcerned. I grit my teeth. Typical warlord: huge ego, huge sword, huge ass. Figuratively—the rest looks just right.
“Go.” I point away from my table. No one insults my friends.
His eyebrows lift. “Go?”
“Do you need me to say it in sign language?” I make a rude hand gesture that universally conveys my meaning.
Setting his jaw, the warlord circles my table. I turn, too. His men follow, and the semicircle of muscle moves to the other side, guarding the warlord’s back and leaving mine once again open to the circus fair and a dozen very powerful people who will come running if I need them.
The warlord sits in the chair the boy used, dwarfing it. “You’re awfully small to be making threats,” he remarks casually.
“It was more of a message,” I reply, still standing.
His gray eyes turning steely, he rises halfway, plants his hands on the table, and leans forward until we’re practically nose to nose. “Send that message again, and I’ll teach you how to make a real threat, and carry through on it.”
My scalp tingles. I have to give him credit; the warlord does menace with a capital M. But I grew up on a steady diet of terror, and I know true malice when I see it. This isn’t it. This is banter to people like us.
Baring my teeth in what could hardly be called a smile, I throw his words back at him. “You could try.”
“Don’t tempt me,” he growls softly.
“Trying to scare me?”
“Glad it’s working.”
I laugh—although maybe I shouldn’t. He does look miffed all of a sudden.
In magical fights, I can absorb other Magois’ powers and then turn their own abilities back on them. If I have to fight a Hoi Polloi, I need to be faster, stronger, or smarter, or else I’d better have some useful magic stored up. Right now, I don’t have anything. I doubt I’m faster, and I know I’m not stronger than the warlord. As for brains, the jury’s still out. At least I have my sense of humor.
Deciding to test his, I glance up at the night sky and then cringe like something terrifying is coming straight for us. As if on cue, the warlord surges to his feet, drawing his sword and looking spectacularly ferocious. His free arm sweeps out over the table, pushing me roughly back. I stumble, see red, and then gear up to fight back when I realize he’s trying to protect me.
Under the heat of his hand, something in my chest contracts with a sharp twist. His piercing eyes look up, around, everywhere, vigilantly scanning the amphitheater for threats. There’s nothing, of course, and his arm drops.
“Don’t scrunch up your eyebrows like that,” I scold, a little out of breath for no good reason. “You’ll give that pretty face wrinkles.”
He’s not pretty. He’s far too masculine for that, with his intense gray eyes and powerful body. A fresh scar cuts diagonally through his right eyebrow. Along with his wide mouth and hooked nose, it gives him a piratical look that does strange things to my insides.
When he swings his gaze back to me, I have no idea what to make of his expression. The auburn-haired man is turning red from trying to hold in a belly laugh, so I cringe again and cover my head with my hands.
“What are you doing?” The warlord sits again, resting his sword across his lap.
“The Gods might punish your gargantuan ego, O Scary One. I’m trying to avoid the lightning bolts.”
The ax-wielder guffaws and then takes a hasty step back.
“Is this how you treat all your customers?” the warlord asks.
My surprise must be obvious. “So far, no question has been asked, and no money has been exchanged. I wouldn’t call you a customer. You’re more of an eavesdropper and a bully.”
“Good Gods!” the ax-wielder booms. “She has bigger balls than I do.”
Humor flashes in the warlord’s silver-hued eyes. “Balls don’t necessarily come with brains.”
“Mine do.” If my smile were any more syrupy, my teeth would rot.
He arches a dark eyebrow, as if daring me to show him the goods. I’m not sure whether to laugh or run. In the face of indecision, I turn to the auburn-haired warrior. “Want your fortune read? Half price.”
“Sure.” He adjusts the ax on his shoulder, catching the torchlight and sending a sudden glare into my eyes.
I move to the side. Being blind is too much like being in the dark—never good.
“I have a question,” the warlord interrupts.
Curiosity sparks. “Finally.” I let out a beleaguered sigh and flop back into my chair. It’s probably safe to sit down again. While the warlord is far from harmless, I’m not getting the impression he’s out to harm me. “I was beginning to think we’d be here all night.”
He levels a flat stare at me that would wither a person who hadn’t been tortured, beaten within an inch of her life, and nearly murdered six times in her own bed before the age of fifteen.
“Around me, big mouths are attached to dead bodies,” he says.
I sigh, shaking my head. “What kind of person goes around threatening death?” And by that, I mean besides most of the people I grew up with.
He leans forward again, one eye closing in a quick and unexpected wink that takes the dangerous edge off his words. “The kind who can.”
Butterflies tickle my insides. “You either have an Olympian-sized sense of self-importance, or you’re overcompensating for a lack of confidence.”
The warlord’s gray eyes crinkle at the corners, and his lips jump up for the briefest of smiles, taking his face from striking to far too appealing in less than a heartbeat.
“Peace?” he offers, his deep voice sincere.
I bite my lip, taming the reciprocal smile I can’t quite help, and pretend to think about it. “Fine. But don’t go releasing any white doves yet.”
He chuckles, the warm, appreciative sound sending a wave of heat through me that has nothing to do with the southern climate. My words come out surprisingly husky when I ask for his question.
Sitting back, he indicates the four men around him. “Are my companions loyal to me?”
And just like that, I’m uncomfortable again. His question smacks of another life, one where people tortured me for truths.
“Soothsayers predict the future.” I force an even tone despite my suddenly thumping heart.
He rephrases the question, never taking his eyes off me. “Will my men remain loyal to me?”
I try not to squirm, not liking his revision much better.