The Pact of the White Blade Knights

by Barbara Russell

  A chilly gust slapped her face when she stepped onto the pavement, then Tyon’s warmth enveloped her in a pine-scented cocoon when he inched closer.

  “I will talk to you in the morrow.” His deep rumble vibrated with hurt, and her heart coiled into a tight ball in her chest. “I promise I’ll find a way to explain everything. To make you understand.”

  It wasn’t good enough. She tilted her head up to meet his gaze. “Tyon, you said you wanted to protect me, but—” Yellow light poured from the window of her apartment. Had she forgotten to turn it off? Not likely.

  He tensed and moved closer. “What is it?”

  “I always turn off the lights of my apartment before leaving. I’m sure I didn’t leave the light on.”

  He gazed up. “Wait here.” He strode towards the entrance.

  “I’m coming with you.” She followed, but paused when he pinned her with a glare.

  “Stay here.” An order, not a request.

  Seething anger fended off the chill of the wind. She jabbed a finger to him. “You’re too bossy. You can’t order me around.”

  The ghost of a smile flickered over his lips, or perhaps she’d imagined it.

  “I’d rather prefer if you stayed here.” He offered a half bow. “Better?”

  “It’s my home. I want to know if someone is in my apartment.” Without waiting for his reply and before her bravado faltered, she trod past him and went up the stairs. Her heels smacked against the wooden steps, and she cursed under her breath. If someone was in her apartment, she’d warned him of her arrival. Well done, Hazel.

  He climbed behind her, all silent darkness and controlled movements while she stomped her feet and was a quivering mess.

  Tyon overtook her with two long strides when they arrived at the landing. Her door stood ajar, swinging back and forth on the hinges. The wood was splintered over the lock. No doubt then. Someone had graced her with a visit.

  She shrank back and peered around. “Do you think they’re still here?”

  He tilted his head as if to listen to any noise. “No, but stay close to me.”

  This time she didn’t argue at his commanding tone.

  He pushed the door open with a foot. A dagger with a sparkling white blade appeared in his hand from underneath his jacket, and despite the fear and exhaustion riding her hard, she craned her neck to examine it.

  The white blade glowed with a blinding light as if from within. She couldn’t name any metal able to shine like that. His strong fingers curled around the wrought hilt, covering it, but she caught a glimpse of the carved wing of a bird.

  On silent feet, he sneaked inside, his body all lean and tense ropes. His large frame obstructed the view, but she gasped when her foot crashed a glass shard on the corridor.

  “Damn.” Tyon gripped the blade harder when he entered the sitting room.

  Oh goodness. Hazel clamped a hand on her mouth. Her couch and armchairs had been slashed open, their stuffing oozing from the gushes. Pieces of broken plates and glasses littered the floor. Her curtains, her cheap cotton curtains had been torn into smithereens as if a tiger had sharpened its claws on them.

  Her stomach gave a lurch. “Who did this?”

  Standing on the threshold of the bedroom, Tyon rasped a hand over his face, his body filling the space of the doorframe.

  Her bedroom. The few things she treasured the most—her books, her mother brooch, and a picture of her father—were there. She tried to walk past him, but he mirrored her moves, blocking her.

  His scowl would’ve frightened her in other circumstances. “You don’t need to see this.”

  “Tyon, let me see.”

  “Hazel—”

  “Move!”

  Working his jaw as if receiving an order flustered him, he did as told and stepped aside, revealing her savaged bed. Feathers from the pillows were scattered everywhere like snowflakes. The quilt her grandmother had cross-stitched was reduced to thin stripes just like her clothes. Her father’s picture and her books were ripped. Her head spun, and she placed a hand on the doorframe for support when she gazed above her bed.

  The word ‘whore’ was written in bright red letters on the wall. The coppery scent singing her nostrils was too strong though.

  No. It wasn’t paint. It was blood.

  Chapter 9

  TYON TOOK HAZEL’S elbow when she swayed, her mouth open. Her wide lilac eyes seemed bigger in the pasty-chalk of her cheeks as she stared at the wall.

  “Come and sit in the other room.” He closed his fingers around her trembling arm and gently led her away from the horror of her bedroom.

  Anger shuddered through him and blotched his vision with black spots, leaving a scorching trail in its wake. But seeing her so shocked and shivering helped focus on taking care of her. She needed him now. He had to control his body’s reaction to her closeness.

  “Who could’ve done this and why?” Her voice was just above a whisper.

  “I promise you, we’ll find out.” He shrugged off his jacket, spread it on the gutted armchair, and laid her in it.

  She didn’t give any sign to have heard him, her bottom lip quivering. Tears hung on the tips of her lashes. “This apartment w-was everything I had. Everything. And why the”—a sob escaped her—“the writing?”

  Tight vines of pain coiled around his heart. He knelt in front of her, wanting to hold her shivering hands and warm them with his kisses. “You can’t stay here. It’s too dangerous.”

  Another sob tore from her mouth.

  He flexed his hands and hesitated before clasping them around hers. She gave a jolt, but relaxed when he stroked her skin through the thin fabric of her glove.

  “Hazel, we need to leave. Whoever did all this might come back.” He measured his frustration in case she had the brilliant idea of defying him again. “You can’t stay here.” What he wanted to do was to haul her up and carry her to his house and lock the door. But she might argue with that.

  She nodded and wiped a tear. “Yes, I agree.”

  Relief had never tasted sweeter. “You’re going to stay in my house for a while.”

  Her hands contracted, and she stiffened. Damn his tone, he must’ve ordered her again.

  “I’ll go to a hotel,” she said.

  The only good thing in her words was that her voice sounded stronger.

  Sharing his home with her, having her so close scattered his rational thoughts and sent a chill down his back for what might happen if he lost his battle with temptation. But he wouldn’t trust any other place. A sin-breather was involved. Who else would attack her, the woman the hallow had chosen, and right after the hallow had been contaminated by evil? Too many coincidences. “I can protect you in my house.” No sin-breather could enter his house unless invited, and human thugs respected him in Whitechapel.

  His former plan to snatch her and take her home was more attractive by the minute.

  She lowered her gaze to their entwined hands. “I can’t stay with you.”

  Arrows to his heart. He pushed down his rising frustration. He wasn’t good with words, but he had to find the right ones to convince her. “You’ll be safe with me.” He squeezed her hands, enjoying the rush of adrenaline the contact caused. Enjoying it too much. “Please.”

  Her gaze shot to him, half shocked, half delighted. Yes, he didn’t beg often, but he was bloody desperate.

  She stared at him for a moment that lasted a century, and he couldn’t interpret the light swirling in the depth of her eyes.

  “All right,” she whispered with a nod.

  Happiness and relief exploded within him, unfamiliar, intoxicating sensations. “Good.” He rose and slipped his hand from hers, a sense of loss flooding him.

  She grabbed his fingers, hard, shooting a new rush of longing through him. “But I want answers. Convincing answers.”

  Even if the fabric of her gloves separated their skins, her softness stroked his hand.

  He caught a waft of her fresh scent. “I promi
se.”

  The trip in the carriage was too short. He didn’t have the time to wrap his mind around the idea that Hazel was going to sleep in his house, and that she wanted answers. But the whole point of keeping her in the dark was to protect her, and he’d failed her. She was in danger because of him.

  When he pushed his front door open, darkness greeted him, and it was as if even the house was holding its breath, waiting for what would happen. He lit the gas lamps and trudged upstairs, Hazel silently behind him.

  She muttered something he didn’t catch despite his fine hearing. Her presence distracted him too much.

  “I’m sorry?” He opened the guest room door.

  “I said I don’t have any clothes aside from what I’m wearing.” She spread her arms. “Everything I own has been cut and ripped.”

  The hearth was cold, and he busied himself starting the fire to not think about her naked. “I’ll give you some of my clothes for the night.” Hazel in his clothes—the thought swelled his chest . . . and his cock.

  Orange flames erupted from the hearth after he ignited the log. The hem of her skirt swept into view when she sat on the bed. His jacket was draped over her shoulders, and she seemed smaller and more fragile in the oversized garment.

  She plucked out her gloves, one finger at a time. “Tell me about the canopy vase.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.” A dark curl fell over her chin as if to underline her determination.

  The wound on his thigh throbbed. She’s already in danger. The words replayed in his mind. He’d put her in danger like he’d endangered his brothers. “Let’s make a deal. I’ll answer this question, but afterwards, you’re going to sleep. You’re exhausted.”

  “I’m not a child.”

  “I’m worried about you.”

  “Stop worrying about me and give me answers.”

  A flame spiked up and sent red sparks flying on the stone floor. She perched on a corner of the bed, all tense and pale.

  “That depends if you’re ready to hear about sorcery,” he challenged.

  She squeezed her lips. “Fine. Give me your version of the situation.”

  “What do you want to know?” He sat on the armchair and propped his elbows on his knees.

  “How is the vase supposed to help you find your siblings?”

  “When I said brothers, I didn’t mean relatives.”

  She perked up, a flicker of anger hardening her features. “Then what? Did you lie to me?”

  “No.” Why was it so hard to trust him when he said he didn’t lie? “We worked together as knights in the same Order, and we made a pact, a promise that bound us together. Forever.” Tyon glanced up. The anger was gone from her face, replaced by a frown.

  “Knights? Order? What are you talking about?”

  That was the core of the entire discussion. “Hazel, do you understand that once I tell you everything, once you become truly involved with my secrets, your life will be in grave danger?”

  She squirmed. A few hours ago, he could be she would’ve rolled her eyes, but he guessed the evening had changed her perspective.

  “I do. I’m not safe now, anyway.”

  He unsheathed his white blade and handed it to her, hilt first. “You’re an archaeologist. You should estimate how old this dagger is.”

  Hazel hesitated before taking the dagger. Her frown deepened as she turned it around and traced the wings of the phoenix carved in the hilt. “This symbol here, the phoenix with a pointed crown on its head, it belongs to one of the lords who went into battle during the crusades.” She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth. “From southern France. I can’t guess the name of the family, but I recognise the short cross on the crown, the symbol of the crusaders, probably early eleventh century because after that period, the symbol changed and became a cross enclosed in a shield.” Colour returned in her cheeks now that she was in her element again. History. Science. No sorcery.

  “The date is 1096, and the family’s name is Sancerre,” he said.

  Colour leeched out from her face again. “Good God.” She sprang to her feet, crouched next to the fire, and examined the blade closer to the light. “So I was right. It’s almost eight hundred years old. Were your ancestors crusaders?” Awe filled her voice.

  He ran his hands over his thighs. Perhaps for now it was better if she didn’t know he was those ancestors. “You can say it’s a family tradition. The dagger belongs to the Order of the White Blade.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Few have.”

  She twirled the blade again, and it caught the light. “And are its knights still active?”

  “They are. Very much.”

  “You’re one of them.”

  He nodded.

  “Oh.” She plopped on the floor in a spill of skirts. The fire cast dancing shadows over her face. “What are you fighting for?”

  He couldn’t lie, not even if he wanted to. It was part of becoming a sin-eater. But one didn’t spend eight hundred years on Earth without learning how to tell the truth without saying too much. “The Order is fighting an assassins’ guild. We call them sin-breathers. During the first crusade, the sin-breathers were believed to have the ability to spread evil into humans’ souls, infecting them, causing them to rot. They aimed, breathed out, and contaminated a human. There were anger-breathers, envy-breathers, lust-breathers, you name it. Every one of the seven deadly sins had its carriers. The knights were then called sin-eaters because they destroyed sin-breathers, purified the souls, and honoured the seven virtues: wisdom, justice, temperance, courage, faith, hope, and charity.”

  She listened, her lips slightly parted and her hands casually resting on the blade that had taken countless lives.

  “The white blade knights were quested with the task of destroying the sin-breathers, especially their leader, a sin-breather who could master all the seven sins, and their Hierophant, a powerful necromancer and sorcerer who controlled all the sin-breathers. They were causing havoc in Middle East. Wars brewed constantly, hatred spread like gangrene, brothers turned against brothers, family against family, country against country.” The stench of death still filled Tyon’s nostrils when he recalled the mutilated bodies in the fields around Nicaea. Crows picked on the flesh rotting in the harsh sun. So many dead, so much despair.

  “And?” she asked in a whisper, shifting closer.

  “The knights, guided by the Monk, a young religious man, were winning. They stormed the sin-breathers’ temple and slayed many of them. But victory is a fickle friend.” He ground his molars—the memory of the sin-breathers’ attack flashing across his mind. “The sin-breathers gathered their forces and attacked the knights’ temple in Nicaea in retaliation, taking advantage of the Monk’s absence. The knights succumbed, one by one struck by the sin-breathers obsidian blades.”

  Hazel clenched the dagger against her chest, her attention fully on him.

  “Many knights died, a few were barely alive when the Monk arrived at the temple and found what was left of the battle. There were only five warriors mortally wounded, but still breathing: the knights’ captain then his first lieutenant, Étienne, a man from Marseille, Isharamat, a woman from the Ashrabat Tribe, the tribe I talked to you about, and Artemis, another woman from Lycia. The fifth survivor was Aleximanus.

  “Desperate to save his knights, the Monk asked them a question.” He swallowed. “The Monk asked, ‘What if I grant you another chance to live, eternal life to fight evil with your body, soul, and heart? What would you say, warrior?’ Each knight gave him the same reply. They said, ‘I’d be honoured to accept if I can fight side by side with my brothers.’ It was the answer the Monk hoped for.” He paused to give the sorrow pressing on his chest the time to ease.

  “Why?” she whispered. “Why did the Monk hope for that answer?”

  “It was ancient magic, a selfless ritual. He couldn’t have saved the knights unless they told him to save the others. And so he did it. The knights made
a pact that bound them together. Their lives and powers forever linked. The Monk granted them immortality, paying the ultimate price.”

  “He died?” She sounded horrified.

  “More or less. He lost his powers and became a spirit. He visited the knights in their dreams, but couldn’t take physical form, too weak for it. For centuries, the knights kept fighting as sin-breathers multiplied. But so could the sin-eaters. Together, they could join forces and recruit more sin-eaters.”

  “Recruit? How?”

  “When they found a human with a pure soul and the will to fight evil, the five knights could give him or her the power to eat sins, grant them immortality. Well, a sin-eater can survive any wound short of decapitation or a precise stab to the heart. But make no mistake, the pact bound only the original five knights.” He glanced at her. She hadn’t flinched at the words magic and immortality. “Then, five years ago, the knights were betrayed. One of the five joined the enemy and became a sin-breather.” A hard ball of sorrow weighed over his chest. It was harder than he’d thought to spill the entire story.

  Hazel sat still, her fingers curled around the hilt. “Hellfire, who was the traitor?”

  “Aleximanus,” he spat. “The Hierophant of the sin-breathers cursed the knights. The new sin-eaters the five had created were slaughtered. But the Monk protected his five well. They didn’t die as the Hierophant wanted. They were dispersed, scattered in the four corners of the world. Alone they were no threat for the sin-breathers. Without his brothers, a knight is unbalanced. The pact and the bond kept him strong and kept his powers under control. Without his fellow warriors, he’s nothing and can’t create new sin-eaters. In fact, he can be dangerous if he loses control of his energy. The only chance to find another knight is to get one of the sacred hallows.”

  “Like the canopy vase?”

  He nodded. “I don’t know how they work, but when the five knights were dying back in Nicaea, a piece of their souls detached. The legend says these pieces sank into different objects. When the hallow chooses its bearer, a mortal human, it comes to life. The hallow forms a connection with the human, and a knight can find one of his brothers using it like a beacon, and can find a beacon only through the human who touched it because—”