Kate Daniels 03 - Magic Strikes

sober, and therefore posed a bigger threat.
    Saiman held out a chair, expecting me to sit in it, which would put my back to the man. “The other chair,” I murmured. The man still stared at me.
    “I’m sorry?”
    “The other chair.”
    Saiman smoothly switched to the opposite side of the table and pulled out the other chair. I sat. Saiman sat, too.
    A waiter glided up, obscuring my view. Saiman ordered cognac. “And the lady?” the waiter inquired. Saiman opened his mouth.
    “Water, no ice,” I said.
    Saiman clamped his mouth shut. The waiter flittered away, revealing the dark-haired man, who had pivoted subtly so he could watch us. He looked at me as if he was searching for something in my face. I broadcasted “bodyguard” loud and clear. That’s right—looking is free; touch Saiman and I’ll crush your windpipe.
    “There’s no need to play my bodyguard,” Saiman assured me.
    “There’s no need to play my date.” It was a matter of principle. If somebody sniped Saiman while I sat two feet away, I would have to pack up my knives and take up farming instead.
    “I can’t help it. You’re simply stunning.”
    “Is this the part where I swoon?”
    The man rose and headed toward us. Six-two at least. I didn’t like the way he moved, smooth, gliding easily on liquid joints. A swordsman. An exceptional swordsman, to move with such grace considering his size. Tall, supple, deadly.
    Saiman sighed. “At the risk of sounding crude, wooing you is like playing basketball with a porcupine. No compliment goes unpunished.”
    “Then stop complimenting.”
    A young red-haired man entered the observation deck and briskly crossed the floor. The swordsman halted in midstep. The young man approached, said something softly, and stepped to the side, treating the man with the deference given to a senior officer. The swordsman glanced at me one last time and walked away.
    Saiman chuckled.
    “I don’t see the humor in it.”
    The waiter delivered our drinks: my water in a flute and Saiman’s cognac in a heavy cut-crystal glass. Saiman cupped the bowl of his glass in his palm to warm the dark amber liquid, and held it close, letting the aroma rise to his face.
    “Male attention is to be expected. You’re a captivating woman. Edgy. Fascinating. And there are certain advantages to being seen in my company. I’m attractive, successful, and respected. And very rich. My reputation in this particular venue is beyond reproach. Your beauty and my position create an air of allure. I think you’ll discover that men here will find you very desirable. We could be a devastating duo . . .”
    I flexed my wrist, popped a silver needle into my palm, and offered it to him.
    “What’s this?”
    “A needle.”
    “What should I do with it?”
    He’d walked right into it. Too easy. “Please use it to pop your head. It’s obscuring my view of the room.”
    The doors of the observation deck opened and two men entered. The one on the left towered over his buddy. Tall, large, his hair cropped so close it was merely stubble on his large scalp, he held himself ramrod straight. He wore black pants, huge combat boots, and nothing else. Twisted swirls of tribal tattoos, precise and coal black as if painted in pitch, spiraled up his arms, stained his chest, and climbed up his back over his neck. A lot of elaborate ink. Interesting that it would all be the same color.
    Beside him walked a man with hair so blond, it resembled a lemon. Cut even with the corner of his jaw, it flared around his narrow face in a disorganized mess. It was an odd haircut for a man but he somehow pulled it off without looking too feminine.
    “And here they are.” Saiman leaned back casually.
    “Reapers?” I murmured.
    “Yes. The dark brute uses the stage name ‘Cesare.’ The blond is Mart.”
    “What are their real names?” If anyone knew, Saiman would.
    “I have no idea.” Saiman sipped his cognac. “And that bothers me.”
    The Reapers zeroed in on our table.
    “Anything in particular I’m looking for?”
    “I want to know if they’re human.”
    I watched Mart. Lean, bordering on thin, he wore a long gray trench coat he left hanging open. Under it was what could only be described as a cat burglar suit: black and skin-tight over his chest, it hugged his legs before disappearing into soft black boots. If it wasn’t for the tightness of the suit, I would’ve missed the minute tensing of his leg muscles. He leapt and landed in a light crouch