A Promise of Fire (Kingmaker Chronicles, #1)(6)

I huff, incredulous. “Do you want my services? If you do, sit down. Otherwise, go away. You’re scaring people off with that look.”

His expression darkens. “What look?”

“That one.” I wag my finger in his face. “The one that says I’m big, I’m bad, and I can chew you up, spit out your guts, and use your bones for toothpicks.”

The warlord’s face blanks with surprise. You’d think I just morphed into the Hydra and grew some extra heads.

One of his four men, an auburn-haired ax-wielder to his left, can’t repress a snort and gets the back of the warlord’s fist in the gut for it. Not too hard, but hard enough that the end of the laugh comes out as a wheeze.

I glare at the semicircle of large, muscular men now cutting me off from the noise and bustle of the rest of the circus fair. My table is at my back, they’re at my front, and I can’t walk away, even if I want to. “Take your violence elsewhere. This is a peaceful table.”

Peaceful? Me? Ha!

“A fragile flower,” the warlord mocks, magnetic gray eyes looking me up and down in a way that makes my temperature rise. He studies me intently and a little too long. “And wilting in the heat.”

I scowl, repressing the urge to wipe my sweaty palms on his white tunic. He’s too clean for a tribal warlord. He doesn’t even smell bad, and his slightly wild, jet-black hair is shiny, curling softly around his neck. There’s not a drop of perspiration on him, which infuriates me. I contemplate the sword with its two-handed hilt poking up over his shoulder from the leather harness on his back, pretty sure I can’t even lift the monstrosity. Good thing I have other strengths.

The sharp pinch of magic stings my skin, and I turn. Aetos is watching.

“Either sit down and get a question answered, or that man over there”—I point to my painted friend—“is going to pop your skull like a cherry in a crow’s beak.”

The warlord’s teeth flash in the way of wolves before they pounce. “You think he can?”

“I know he can.”

The idiot actually chuckles. “He wouldn’t know what hit him.”

I snort. “He’d incinerate you.”

“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.