Highlander Enchanted(93)

“Where are you trying to go?” I asked and eased away from the stash of supplies.

“You with the orphanage?”

“Where are you trying to go?” I repeated.

He snorted. “My employers are located somewhere in this forest. A priest named Cristopolos.” His gaze went to our surroundings, and one of the tattoos on his neck stood out. The mark of Hermes – a winged foot – was surrounded by other ornate ink work. Herakles had taught me about the different guilds of the underground society of criminals. I filtered through what he’d forced me to learn to identify the marking.

“You’re a mercenary,” I said, surprised.

“Not a mercenary. A gladiator,” the stranger corrected. “But I do merc work on the side during the off season.”

I didn’t think someone could bear the tattoo of a mercenary and not be one. Mixed martial artists belonging to the Gladiator Guild were street fighters paid handsomely for beating the daylights out of another of their kind. The line between the legal and illegal markets of being paid to fight was blurry, and I didn’t fully understand it except that this man wore a tattoo that designated him to be something other than what he claimed he was.

“So you fight and kill people for money,” I said, recalling what the priests told us about one of the occupations they favored least. They looked upon gladiators with disdain and mercenaries with outright horror.

“Not exactly the godly values they teach you, I know.”

“I think it’s cool. I can fight, too.”

“Sure, kid.” He flashed an insincere smile. “Which way is it?”

I bit back my response, irritated he didn’t believe me. And to call me kid when I was eighteen, an adult by most standards … though today, I felt like I was being treated like a ten year old again. The mercenary was younger than Herakles’ age of thirty five, younger than the priests and the age of all my favorite Hollywood actors.

“Whatever,” I muttered. “What kind of gladiator gets lost in a tiny forest like this?”

“One hired to fight not to track,” he returned.

I was tempted to mislead him to teach him a lesson. A look at him, though, and I recalled what Herakles once said about not deliberately pissing off someone who could pound me into the ground. Priests were one thing. They adhered to strict rules about non-violence. But a gladiator or mercenary was another.

Turning away, I put my knife away and started towards the meadow. “I’ll race you there.”

“You want to race me?” He fell into step behind me, amused. He was over six feet tall and muscular in a way the teen boys at the campground neighboring the property weren’t.

“Why not?” I snapped. “You think I can’t run?”

“I think I don’t want to explain to the priests what happened to the little girl in the forest who fell and impaled herself on a tree trunk because she tried to race me,” he replied with arrogance that made me want to ditch him in the swampy part of the forest where I’d accidentally discovered quicksand one summer.

Really? This man couldn’t know I had been raised by the strongest Olympian in the world. Satisfaction sank into me. I loved the opportunity to prove someone wrong, probably because I rarely had the chance.

“See if you can keep up,” I challenged and then bolted.

For the first fifty meters, he almost did. I pushed myself harder. I had the advantage of knowing the forest and led him through a route that included a few downed trees.

Larger and heavier than me, the gladiator soon fell behind as he struggled to navigate spaces more suitable to someone my size than his. I reached the meadow triumphant and slowed to a trot as I broke free of the forest and headed back to the priest.

Reaching him, I turned to wait for the gladiator. He appeared a full two minutes later.

“I found the mercenary you hired,” I told Father Ellis. “What made you all want to hire someone like that anyway? Don’t you hate them?”

Father Ellis climbed to his feet, facing the gladiator striding across the field towards us. “We needed discretion and loyalty. Money buys both,” Father Ellis said. “Though we paid for a gladiator of some honor, not a mercenary.”

“Yeah, well, he has the tattoo of a merc.” I observed the approaching gladiator. He was grinning, as if pleased by the exercise, his sharp gaze on the priest beside me. “Herakles said you should never pay someone like that. Besides, I can take care of myself.”

“Not against what comes.” Ignoring my look, Father Ellis stepped away to greet the gladiator. “I am Father Ellis. You must be Niko.”

“I am.” The gladiator shook his hand.

“You’re late. We expected you hours ago.”

“The airport is locked down. I had to find a creative route here,” came the easy response.

I kind of liked that Niko wasn’t fazed by the priest’s chiding. Niko wasn’t really what I expected of a mercenary. I had the vision of a gold-obsessed pirate in my head for some reason, and the clean-shaven, practically attired Niko was nothing like that. The edge of wary arrogance definitely fit the image I’d created.

“You’ve met your charge, I see,” Father Ellis said.

“What? This little girl?” Niko motioned to me. He looked me over critically.