Underground Warrior. Evelyn Vaughn

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

      Now 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